"I'm going to touch you," he said to me.
I could feel my whole body react to those five little words. His voice sounded pleasant in my ear, barely more than a whisper, but still so deep. I don't think that he meant to be overheard by the other people standing nearby. His voice was the only thing that has touched me, he has kept his hands to himself. Although his hands didn't reach out for me, his body radiated a heat that I could feel. The smell of his cologne was filling my nostrils. I was sure he only wore it to make himself more desirable to the women he would meet tonight, but not overpowering. Unlike his statement.
It was a statement. Not a question or request to touch me. Just a statement from him, about what would, without a doubt, happen to me that night. How far would he go in touching me? How will he touch me? Who would know that he was doing it? When would he begin? All of these questions started flooding my mind, but I never asked because I knew that he wasn't going to give me any answers. He was walking away, to the other side of the room.
I waited for him to make eye contact. To confirm what I had heard. My breathing had quickened in that moment of his passing. Realizing that I had been holding it, I slowly exhaled. He continued to move away only stopping to say hello to someone who had come into the room. I waited for him to turn around. To look at me. But then I realized that looking wasn't what he was going to do. Touching is what he said, not looking.
I released the tight grip I was holding on my glass. Raising it to my lips, I began to drink the cool liquid inside. The champagne bubbles were floating to the surface and tickling the roof of my mouth.
My friend caught my eye and gave a little nod. "Doing ok?" she mouthed to me. I simply nodded. Judging by the way she was looking at me I could tell she didn't see him talking to me.
I slid off of the stool I had been sitting on. Had it not been under my butt, I'm sure that I would have crumbled to the ground from my legs feeling weak from him walking by. My glass was nearly gone. I felt steadier, and sure of myself, so I got down and crossed over to the table of food.
Something to eat was what I need now. Perhaps a few bites of something will help the butterflies flying around in my stomach after seeing him. Besides, I was feeling a bit lightheaded all of a sudden. It must be this wine I looked down at the glass. Draining it, I placed it aside and grabbed a plate.
It would be my last glass of the night, my only glass in fact. I didn't like to drink at these things it made my head foggy and made me dizzy. It was harder to stay focused. I always want to retain my senses and my control, in groups like this. But I had just lost that. His declaration of intention had drained all but my ability to stay upright. I planned on getting it back.
The strawberry I had on my plate felt plump under my finger and thumb. I squeezed it slightly. Its flesh firm and yet yielding. I lifted it to my mouth and bit into it the juice floating down over my lip and chin. I leaned forward to catch it with my napkin, not wanting to stain my shirt. The sweet fruit playing on my tongue made me wonder if he is planning to touch me with his mouth or hand.
The thoughts of how he might do this, once again began to float in my mind's eye. The idea of him touching. I gave into my mind and closed my eyes for just a minute, imagining. His soft, tender, and questioning fingers. They would barely notice the feel of the fabric of my skirt, as they glided along the roundness of my ass cheeks. I heard a small moan.
I shook my head, as my eyes flew open. Who was having sex already, I wondered? Quickly I remembered it was my own body, giving voice to what my brain was conjuring. I swallowed the rest of the berry and hurriedly picked out a few more strawberries, piling them on my plate. My heart was racing again and I drew in a few long breaths to slow its pace.
I found my seat occupied now by a very leggy redhead. Looking around I chose another seat, instead. I didn't feel the need to engage in small talk over whose seat it had been. Deciding to keep the conversation in my own mind for now, the current discussion being a debate. What was the best course of action between allowing this man to perform his desire, or not. This was not something I had sought out to play with before. Nor was it the first time it had happened either. Before it was the shock of allowing, taking over from disallowing. Now it was a toss between that allowing and the wanting. The need between my legs made itself known more as each minute passed.
Nibbling on a strawberry I studied him more. He wasn't the tallest man in the room, but he wasn't the shortest either. I liked how his hair brushed the back of his collar, the bits of grey blending into blonde matching his well-kept beard. It was a subtle mixture, unlike him. I continued to look him over, like prey. Or was he the predator? After all, I wasn't the one making a declaration of intention.
I let my mind replay our lengthy dialogue in my head. I wanted it, I decided. When the time came I would allow this guy, this predator, this prey, to lay a part of his body in direct contact with my own. The dam in my mind gave way to the images it had been piling up. I found myself tightening my ass, at the idea of the feathery caresses of my butt cheeks. The way his finger would slide along; following the seam down the back of my skirt. Tracing the seam of my body, knowing that he would know what would be underneath it.
I watched his back as he walked around the room. His hand at the small of a woman's back, or firmly shaking her husband's. Oh, the idea of that hand covering one, or both, of my breasts. His hand warmed my skin through the silk of my blouse. He would start flicking open the buttons, allowing direct contact with my honey-tanned skin. My nipples felt like rocks in my blouse. I didn't need to look down to know that they were visible to everyone who cared to see.
Would people be looking when this happens? Would he allow me some kind of privacy or make a show of my body's reaction to his touch? Would he let others see the control he has over me? The images in my mind making me causing me to squeeze my thighs together.
Once again I found myself sighing deeply. He was continuing his round of the room. He seemed to be able to read the people that he came in contact with. Knowing when to touch, and where. For some, it was higher up on an arm; or lower on a backside. Others maintained their distance to his touch, offering only a hand or none at all. Would he be just as good with my body's needs? Would he use the right amount of touch? Would he know just how to touch me? To make my body shudder in need. Or to explode with passion?