The song shifts to something else, a mumbly indie rock jam. It's not sexy, not really, but in the circumstance, it feels sultry. It feels right.
He scoots a little closer.
He traces the line again.
Then he pushes both sides of my dress open. He covers one breast with his hand. He curls the other around my neck and he leans into a slow, deep kiss.
It starts softly. His lips on mine. The taste of gin and sugar and quinine.
My lips part. His tongue slips into my mouth and dances with mine.
He leads.
I follow.
I release a little more control. Because I trust him with my body. I trust him to lead. Sure, it's more sexual than anything, but that's something.
That's a lot.
He toys with my nipple as he kisses me.
I kiss him back; I melt into his body; I give in to the desire buzzing through my body.
I stop fighting, pushing, trying.
I feel every raw drop of perfect, agonizing need.
He teases me again and again, then he moves to my other breast and toys with me there. All the time, his lips stay locked to mine. He kisses me harder and deeper, claiming more of me, promising more of him.
It feels like we go forever. For hours.
Finally, he comes up for air. He pulls back, but he leaves my dress where it is, leaves me exposed to him in the crowded bar.
He takes a long sip of his drink.
I do the same with mine.
He rakes his eyes over my body, studying every exposed inch. "You like this?"
"Yes."
"Being on display?"
"Yes."
"Good. I like to watch."
How can the simple words make my sex clench? Did my new meds turn me into a freak? Or am I finally in touch with the sexual side of myself?
I don't even care.
I only care about finding more satisfaction.
"I'm going to watch," he says. "Later."
"Later?"
He nods. "But now—" He curls his hand around my leg, just above my knee.