How can words from a stranger have me reacting like this? I’m not one to smile often, even when life was going my way. I can’t remember the last time I felt happy enough to smile so easily. The feeling I have when I’m talking to her is addictive. I’ve never shared as much about myself with a person I knew so little about before. Maybe anyone, for that matter.
“It’s late,” she says in a hushed voice. After last call, I waited to close out my tab. I didn’t want to leave, and she seemed to be on the same page.
“It is,” I say as I look up from her legs to her face.
She proceeded to lock up after the last waitress counted out, and then we moved to one of the high-top tables. She kicked off her shoes and draped her legs in my lap. It felt… comfortable. Not a typical feeling I have with many women. Especially ones that I’ve just met. But I can’t say I’ve ever met someone like her before. I don’t just want to take her home and fuck her. I mean, I definitely want to do that, but I like being around her. Talking to her. She’s the only person who’s made me forget about my own bullshit. I feel light around her. Weightless seems like the wrong word, but something like it. Careless, but in a good way. I should ease back, but I can’t seem to do it.
My fingers drag up and down her calves lazily.
“That’s your move, big guy? To agree with me? And not, ‘you’re coming home with me’ or ‘let's get outta here?’” she asks in a teasing tone. “Fucking hell, I thought you would have had more game than this.”
I sit up in my seat, and in one fast movement, I pull her chair closer to mine. The sound of it dragging on the floor disrupts the relaxed mood we’ve curated. And without waiting for approval, I lift her off her seat and into my lap. She sucks in a breath and then lets out a nervous laugh.
“This isn’t my game. I don’t have an agenda. I simply take what I want. And, right now, I want to taste your mouth,” I say, moving my hands to frame her face and brush my thumbs along her pretty lips.
Tracing her top lip, it’s one curved line with no dip or bow. Thinner than the bottom, but together they’re asking to be adored. “I want to hear what small sounds you make when I lick this lip. And tug this one between my teeth.”
I take a minute to really look at her. See what that admission does to her. Thick lashes frame her warm brown eyes, smudged black with whatever makeup she had on from the day. There’s a single handful of freckles along the bridge of her nose, with a tiny diamond stud pierced on the right side. She’s adorable and sultry, mixed in a curvy, petite package that I’m crushing on, hard.
One long, curving line of black ink starts from her shoulder down to her wrist with a small white and light pink blossom every few inches. It’s delicate. A type of tattoo I’ve never seen before, and it makes her all the more alluring.
“I like this,” I tell her as I drag my fingers around the tiny flowers, following the vine.
“I drew it. Not on myself, but it’s my design. I love the idea of being able to put art along my body.” She shifts closer to me. “If life were a little different, maybe I would have been a tattoo artist instead of an actuary that moonlights as a bartender.” She laughs, but I don’t. The idea of wanting to become something other than what you worked for seems like the most foreign concept to me. And yet, I’m being forced to do it while she’s fantasizing about it.
“And this one.” She turns her neck, and I see a vine that runs along her hairline when she lifts her dark hair and pushes it over her shoulder.
I caress more of her skin. Soft and warm. I see a shiver ripple through her, and her neck flushes pink. “What are these?” I ask as I explore the tiny white flowers. Each one with flecks of purple and yellow toward the center.
“Lemon blossoms,” she says quietly. I trace my finger along them again.
“You have any?” she asks as I keep drawing along her neck and behind her ear.
I shift to show her. “I do. Mountains start on my shoulder, and I plan to move them down my arm. And then one on my chest.” She lets her hair fall from her grip. Raising her brows, she silently asks about the design on my chest. “An outline of wings. For the Air Force.”
“Active duty?”
I shake my head.
“So, not a career boy, then?” she says playfully.
I point to my imperfect eye. The one she called beautiful. “Not anymore.”
“Blank slate,” she says softly.
“Not by choice. Not really sure where I go from here.”
She smiles, and I can tell she wants to say more. She watches my face as my fingers trail the vine along her arm again. “Well, flyboy, you should already know this. But I’ll say it because maybe you need the reminder. Sometimes you just need to look up and check out the blue skies. Maybe they’ll help clear your mind a bit. Give you a better idea. Start a new path.”
“You make it sound so easy. Just to pick something and start again.”
She leans back as she sits in my lap and traces my hair line from my forehead down to behind my ear. I shut my eyes in response. The warmth of her close to me is calming and the motion of her fingers brushing along my skin and into my hair melts away the negative. “Find something you love to do that has nothing to do with what you did before. Start there and see where it takes you.”
My mouth twitches, lips curling without effort. I open my eyes, meeting her gaze as she rakes her attention around my face, from my eyes to my lips and back. “Did you just full circle our conversation back to choosing our own adventure?”
But without answering, she moves her hips in toward mine, grinding into my lap, and the movement shoots any remaining reserve I had out that front door. The thoughts about life and careers are long gone. As I pull her closer, she leans in and playfully bites my lower lip.
“Fuck,” I whisper, drawing out the word as she pulls back. My brain can’t register much else other than the sexiness of that move.