You
She is leaning over the counter when you walk into the hotel bar, stretched up on the toes of one boot as she reaches for something on the other side. You’re getting an eyeful of derriere clad in tight jeans and the flash of a tattoo where her shirt has ridden up. Your eyebrow lifts and a smile curves your lips. Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t head straight to bed when you got back today. It’s been a long week and you’re tired but with the eye candy and the thought of the Manhattan you’re about to order – things are looking up.
She’s stretching as far as she can, and her fingers finally graze the top of the salt pot she’s been trying to reach. She grabs it with a triumphant smile then waves at the bartender. He shakes his head at her, returning the smile. “If you’re not careful, people are going to think you work here you know.”
“What?” her voice is indignant. “You were busy, and you forgot to give me the salt. A girl does what she must when it comes to her alcohol. No one would confuse that with actually being insane enough to choose bartending as a career!”
“You’re right of course,” he pauses for a moment. “Except you gave me very detailed directions on how to pour those ridiculous shooters the ladies earlier asked for, and dressed Mr Grabby Hands down so subtly I don’t think he’s sure why his hands were suddenly very firmly buried in his pockets.” His tone is amused and the corner of her mouth curls just a touch, her voice almost mocking. The teasing lilt takes the sting out of her words.
“Sunshine, I’m female. Keeping grabby hands off my ass is something I learned to do a very long time ago.” The smile widens into a sudden grin and she adds. “But I did work that side of the counter for a long time, so I had to teach myself to do it without bloodshed.”
Her
She hears your laugh as you step into the open space near her. It is throaty, light, the warmth in it reaching for her, making her turn to look at the source. Heat flares in her gaze for a moment, but she tamps it down so quickly you’re not sure that’s what you saw. Her eyes flick to the bartender as he clears his throat and you turn to face him. There is definitely heat in his gaze, and you smile a little in response. The woman sees the smile and the grin turns wry, and you feel, more than see, the shoulder that lifts in an amused shrug. “Looks like you have a customer, and I’m sure you can handle whatever the lady needs. You know where to find me if you need this.” She turns and starts walking away. Her step falters a little as she hears you placing your order.
“Tell me you know how to mix a Manhattan perfect and we’re not going to have to call the little lady away from her drink to help you out again,” your voice is soft, sultry without trying, as smooth as that bourbon sliding over the ice in the cocktail shaker as the bartender starts pouring. She reaches her table and slides into the booth, flicking her long plait back over her shoulder as she gets comfortable. She’s the only one sitting there, but it’s late and the bar isn’t busy so she doesn’t feel guilty about taking up the whole thing to herself. Her gaze is drawn to you again, surveying you as you survey the small crowd.
Your blouse is a soft white material that just barely hugs your figure, a tapered waist accentuating the soft flare of your hips, and the tiny buttons holding it in place cause her fingers to twitch. If just one more were undone she’d be able to see the bra hugging the soft swell of your breasts. Her eyes watch how the downlights from the bar catch fire in your hair and she wonders if your nipples are as pink as those fiery curls tumbling onto your shoulder's promise.
The thought paints a delicious picture in her mind. Your skirt is just a touch too short, catching your long legs at about mid-thigh. She grins, not bothering to hide the heat in her gaze this time. You won’t be able to see it from across the bar. She loves a woman who is confident in her sexuality, flaunting everything that is feminine about her.
Your head is turning slowly, eyes scanning the crowd. You seem to be looking for someone and she sighs softly, head bending back to the notebook she’s been scribbling in all night. Women who look like you are always meeting someone she thinks. Suddenly remembering the whole reason she went to the bar in the first place, she drops her pen back on the table.
You
The soft clatter catches your attention and you finally see the face you’ve been searching for in your slow perusal of the bar. You watch as she sprinkles salt on a slice of lemon, downs what you assume is tequila with barely a shudder, then bites into the lemon, sucking it softly before slowly stripping the flesh from the peel – all without looking up from whatever is lying on the table in front of her.
A smile curves your lips, unformed thoughts about talented tongues dancing through your mind. You take a slow sip of your drink with a look of gratitude in the bartender's direction. Exactly how you like it. You give a little sigh of pleasure. His answering smile says it was more than just a pleasure but your eyes have already gone back to the woman. She’s made herself comfortable you see.
One foot is tucked under her thigh, pointed toes of the other just barely touching the ground. She is writing furiously, her pen moving so quickly you wonder if it’s ahead of or behind her clearly racing thoughts. The booth is dim and her face is in shadows, but the light catches the sun streaks disappearing into her plait, warm honey among the dark strands. It also highlights the tendrils of hair that have escaped the plait, curling onto and tickling her cheeks as she huffs out a frustrated breath, trying to blow them out of her face.
The pen stops moving and she’s back to scanning, making notes here and there as she flips a page back over. She lays the pen down, her hand reaching for the glass you didn’t notice sweating on the table in front of her. Her head tilts back as she arches her back and now the light catches her face. Pretty, you think. You weren’t just imagining it from the brief look you’d gotten just now. A strong jaw softened by a gently curving cheek and the hint of a cleft in her chin. Her naked lips a dainty cupids bow in a dusty pink rose.
Your eyes linger on them as she releases the full bottom lip she’d caught between her teeth when she stretched. You remember large gentle aquamarine blue eyes, intelligence glinting behind the laughter that danced in them. Her head is still leaning against the back of the booth, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the condensation on the glass. You notice a faint scowl of concentration when she tilts her head back down and takes a sip of her drink. You wonder if she’d welcome a distraction.
Her
She grimaces as she swallows, the ice has melted and her drink is more water than anything else by this point. She glances toward the bar, hoping to catch the bartender's attention because it would be easier than going to get a replacement for herself. He’s occupied with the ridiculous shooter ladies and she smiles, wondering what they’re looking for this time. Are they a bridal party? Girlfriends bar hopping their way across town? Work colleagues celebrating the end of a stressful project? She flips to a blank page in her notebook while watching them, making quick notes. Their body language as they laugh about something with each other, flirt with the bartender, boisterous but not overly loud.
She stands, picks up her glass, and crosses back to the bar; to the same spot she was when you arrived. “You might be waiting a while,” she hears you say and her glance flicks to the flirting women before she turns to you. Her eyes meet yours for the first time and she’s caught by their emerald shade. Right now they’re warm with silent laughter, but she can imagine them cold and sharp with anger. Do they darken with passion she wonders? Or blaze?
You
“That’s alright,” she answers. “I’ve nowhere to be right now and who am I to deny someone the chance to flirt with a pretty woman?” Her voice is the same light honey that streaks her hair, sunshine warm and sweet. She has an accent you realise, listening to how it rounds out her words as she speaks. It suits her you think. You take the last sip of your Manhattan, your tongue darting out to catch an errant drop while you fish the cherry from the glass. Gripping the stem you lift it to your mouth, glancing at the woman as you do.
Her gaze has dropped to your lips and this time there’s no mistaking the heat in it. You can feel it burning them. Your confession that it’s the best part dies in your throat and you hesitate a moment, breath catching. Her eyes lift to yours, the smile she gives you is slow and slightly shy. “Especially when it means I get to talk to a beautiful one.”
For a moment you’re confused. Then you remember what she said before and her smile widens in response to yours, the cherry finally completing its journey. “You always this smooth, Miss Sunshine, or am I getting the special treatment tonight?”
“Yes,” she replies. Her expression says she’s not sure what came over her before, although her eyes dance with the nervous laughter that follows her answer.
“Definitely smooth,” you say as the bartender comes over and she orders another tequila and the biggest cup of coffee they have. She looks over at you, indicating your empty glass with a tilt of her head.
“Will you let me get you another one?” she asks. You look at the glass. At her. Considering. You notice the very light flush that has painted her cheeks and you smile again. Interesting you think.
“Yes. Please. I’d like that very much.”
She orders and sees the slightly bemused shake of your head when she turns back to you. Her eyes turn inquisitive. “Something funny?”
“No. Well – just. Tequila…and coffee?”
“Oh.” Her shoulder lifts. Her flush darkens. “I have a tendency to get distracted when I go out. Forget about my drink.” She points to the clearly watered-down drink she’d returned to the barman. “So instead of spending money on something alcoholic that I’ll only have half of, I order something non-alcoholic. But I still want alcohol because why on earth not, so I have a shooter as well.”
“And what could be so distracting that you forget about a perfectly good drink?” you ask, curious.
“People.” Your brow furrows in query and she rushes to explain. “I people-watch. All the time. People fascinate me. How they interact, talk, their mannerisms, funny little quirks. How they communicate when they don’t say a word. You can tell a lot about a person from those things. Their mood, how they feel about someone…a lot really. So I people-watch.”
She falls silent, stirring sugar into her coffee. Her flush has darkened again and you wonder why she would be embarrassed by the explanation. “People-watching is a good distraction,” you say contemplatively, your eyes drifting to the group that has moved back to their table. “I do it often.” There’s gratitude in the look she gives you, maybe some skepticism as well. Her mouth opens to say something but you interrupt. “I’m going to guess you’re an artist.” You glance at her hands, the short nails. They’re surprisingly small you muse. “Artists are forever people-watching.”
“Not an artist,” she says. “Well, not the kind you mean at least. I’m a writer.” She flushes yet again and her laugh is self-deprecating. “Trying to be a writer anyway.” You frown slightly. She tries for an unconcerned shrug but her shoulders are too tense. Her eyes drop to her coffee. She stirs it again. “So not art.” You almost don’t hear her next words, disguised as it is by the huff of air she aims at the flyaway strands of hair haloed around her face. “Not a real job either. Apparently.” Understanding dawns. So someone had given her a hard time about her dream. Career?
“So words are your medium. Artist. Like I said,” you say matter-of-factly, your voice silencing any argument she might have had. “Observant. Always questioning. Fascinating perspectives,” you pause and your hand reaches to brush back a wisp of hair you’ve been watching tickle her cheek. “Sensitive.” Her eyes fly to yours. “Passionate.” Your voice is low and husky. Your eyes move from watching your finger tuck the unruly strand behind her ear to hers. The heat is in your eyes now, a slow burn as they trace the flush that has darkened her cheeks for a very different reason this time. Good, you think.
Her
Your finger doesn’t touch her skin but she can somehow feel the heat of it burning a line along her already flaming cheek. Dear lord she thinks, swallows, and somehow manages to drag her eyes away from yours. She picks up the spoon, puts it down. If she stirs her coffee anymore it’s going to turn into butter. Her eyes flick to the booth where she was sitting, back to you. She curls her fingers through the coffee cups handle. Turns slightly to grasp the shot glass between the fingers of her other hand. She’s moving carefully, eyes trained on her hands even though she knows it’s not necessary. She did this for nearly a decade after all.
She bites a lip, doesn’t quite look at you, and asks, “Would you like to join me?” She’s aiming for casual with her tone. But she wonders if you can hear how not casual the question is.
“Yes,” you say. She quietly exhales the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. Your tone is teasing when you continue, “I thought you’d never ask.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to,” she replies immediately. She watches you pick up your glass, notes your raised eyebrow as she indicates for you to walk ahead of her. She marvels at herself for a moment, wonders where her awkwardness disappeared to. Ah, she thinks, glancing at the beverages in her hands. She wore a different persona when she was a bar lady. False confidence at first, but eventually it had become so natural it was a part of her.
She’s watching your long legs walking in front of her, the subtle swaying of your hips. The movement is natural. The sexy sway that only a woman wearing heels can achieve. She hums appreciatively under her breath, bites her lip when her imagination wanders for a moment. She grins and gives herself a mental shake. She tells herself that there’s no need to be self-conscious – she’s smart, can hold her own in a conversation, is apparently not bad to look at. She can be confident without needing to fake it. Just one woman wanting to enjoy the company of another. A casual conversation over drinks. You reach the booth, slide in on the side where she’d clearly been sitting. Her eyebrow lifts, she glances at her notebook and pen still lying where she left them. So…maybe more than a casual conversation. With a beautiful woman, her mind insists on adding.
You
You shift over, just past where her things are lying. Your invitation is clear and you turn your head to watch what she’s going to do as you set your glass on the table. You see the moment of hesitation, her eyes flicking to the opposite side of the booth, back to her belongings. You let a little bit of challenge show in your eyes, but stay quiet. She meets your look, lips curling into a not-quite smile. You don’t hide your satisfied smirk when she slides in next to you. Not just a blushing Betty you think.
You take a sip of your drink and ask her about her writing, watch her eyes light up when she answers. She uses her hands to punctuate her words and you alternate watching them with watching her while she explains her hobby of creative writing and her job as a copywriter. The way her fingers curl around her cup as if seeking its warmth, brush those bothersome wisps of hair out of her face only for them to fall back to where they were. The way she absentmindedly plays with her abandoned pen when she listens to you speak about your job as a business software trainer. The way her hand rests unconsciously on your arm when she has a question but doesn’t want to interrupt what you’re saying. The gentle strokes her fingers make when you unnecessarily expand your point because you don’t want her to remove her hand.
The conversation has been flowing, full of flirty innuendos and casual touches. The sparkle in her eyes each time one of those subtle hints are dropped and her bubbling laughter when it catches her off guard lets you know that she’s well aware of them. And enjoying them as much as you are. Her cheeks don’t darken with that pretty flush nearly as much but you make a note of every time they do. Finding yourself looking forward to it, wondering if this time you’ll catch her off guard, maybe even trying a little extra hard and smiling triumphantly each time she does.
“You know, if you hadn’t told me you were a trainer, I’d probably have figured it out…eventually,” she smiles. She’s turned her body to face you, one leg lifted onto the seat, toes tucked behind the knee of the other, elbow propped on the table, her chin propped on her hand when you talk. Her eyes drift to her tequila and she reaches for it.
“So you think I’m that easy to figure out then do you?” you ask, amused.
“No. You’re just very good at explaining. And changing the way you’re explaining when someone doesn’t understand. At least…that’s what I’ve seen.” She doesn’t take her eyes off yours as she goes through the ritual of licking the salt from her hand, swallowing the shot and biting into the lemon. “Actually, I’d probably have guessed teacher first. But then there’s that skirt.” Her eyes drop to your legs, tracing the line of it across your thighs.
“Urgh,” she gives a theatrical shudder, she looks up at you. “Warm tequila. Your fault. You keep distracting me.” Her smile, when she returns the lemon to her mouth and once again strips the flesh from the peel, is a clear sign that she knows exactly who is distracting who right now.
“Warm tequila is no good,” you say. Your voice has turned husky. You turn, slide your arm along the table and under hers, fingers gripping its edge. Your gaze stays locked on her lips as you shift forward. “We’ll just have to get you a cold one then.” Her eyes have widened slightly, darting glances between your lips and your eyes as you get closer. You pause. She swallows. You lean forward, hear her breath catch when your lips just barely graze over hers before you murmur in her ear. “And I’ll even show you a better way to drink it.”
Her
You’re so close to her she can feel the heat of your body against her skin. And if she drops her eyes, she’ll be able to get a glimpse of that bra she was itching to see earlier. She can’t see your face but she can feel the smile on your lips as your silky words breathe into her ear. She swallows again, unsure for a moment what to do about this turning of tables. And then she smiles. She slides her hands forward, one along the table and the other along the top of the bench. Leaning into your space as much as you’re leaning into hers. She turns her head. “Only if you join me,” she murmurs back before sliding slowly all the way back off the seat. Her eyes drop, unable to resist peeking. She exhales softly, watching the goosebumps break out where her breath tickles along your cleavage. That hadn’t been intentional. Not exactly anyway. But she loves the result.
She stands, reaches out a hand to help you to your feet. Not stepping back as you do so you’re only inches apart. You’re taller than her and she’s smiling when she looks up at you. Pleased to see there’s a light flush dusted along your collarbones. She knows you’re not blushing. That it’s heat. And her smile widens as her eyes darken slightly in response. “Shall I go get them,” she asks, “or would you prefer we go together?”
“I’ll go,” you say. “You wait here.” You step forward, and she shivers when your bodies brush together before you move around her. She stays standing, hand braced against the table to give her suddenly weak knees a moment to recover before she sinks back into her seat.
“Ho-oooohhhh-leee hellfire,” she breathes, watching you talk to the barman. She couldn’t tell who had won that intense exchange and decided it was a draw. Definitely not a casual conversation. And definitely a VERY beautiful woman, she thinks as you return. She simply slides over, letting you take her seat this time. She doesn’t exactly trust herself to stand right now. And she doesn’t trust you to make that situation any easier when you sit down either. Although she’s facing the other way now, she pulls her leg up into the same position. You turn your body to face her, crossing your ankles, letting your knees brush against hers.
“So you said you have a better way to drink this,” she says, shifting the shooter glasses in front of you both. Your hand takes hers and tingles explode across her skin, causing her to inhale sharply and look up to see if you felt it too. From the expression on your face, she’d say you did. You pick up the salt shaker and turn her hand sideways.
You
“It’s almost exactly the same,” you say. “Only you exchange hands.”
“Exchange hands?” she asks hesitantly. You keep your eyes on hers, tilt your head forward, and bring her hand up to your mouth. Your tongue darts to wet the skin between her thumb and index finger before you shake some salt onto it.
“Exchange hands,” you repeat.
“Oh,” she inhales a slow deep breath and you’re pleased to see that the rosy flush is back.
“Your turn,” you murmur, handing her the salt shaker. She holds it for a moment, not quite sure.
“Ohhh,” the word is a soft realisation. She reaches for your free hand with hers and the smile she gives you is somehow both provocative and guileless. Her head bends forward and the lap of her tongue against your hand sends a frisson of heat shooting up your arm before spreading through you and pooling…lower. She shakes salt onto the wet patch and you both pick up your shooter glasses.
“Cheers,” you say softly, clinking your glasses together while you stare into her eyes. Your heads bend in unison, you feel her tongue echoing yours when you lick the salt from her hand, that same frisson of heat. You don’t let go of her hand when you swallow the tequila or reach for the lemon, keeping it cradled in yours, your thumb brushing her palm. She holds her lemon in her hand, not moving. Only watching your thumb as it moves.
“Your way is much better than mine,” her voice is breathless, her breathing shallow when she drags her eyes to yours.
“That it is,” you agree. You lift her hand to your mouth, press your lips to her palm in a lingering kiss before laying it back in her lap. “The barman told me that they’re going to be closing soon.” She looks around, seems to notice for the first time that there are only a couple of other patrons besides the two of you. You watch the disappointment flicker in her eyes. Maybe she’d like this evening to continue as much as you would. You tilt your head towards the elevators. “I have a room…?” you leave the sentence hanging, making it a question. You keep your voice neutral, no censure, no pressure. Just a simple invitation if she wants it to be.
Her gaze follows yours. Her smile only a little uncertain. “So do I.”
Your answering laugh is light and warm and soft, wrapping around you both, the sounds of the bar disappearing until it’s just the two of you in this moment. “The benefits of traveling on the company dime. Mine is a suite,” you pause, your voice drops, “with a queen-size bed.” Her smile turns attractively shy and she inhales deeply. She nibbles on the side of her bottom lip, head tilted to the side as she thinks about your offer. You’re holding your breath, hoping. But don’t make a move of any kind. The choice must be hers.
“Then lead the way,” she finally responds quietly. You can’t stop the grin that spreads across your face.
“Wonderful.”
