I felt him before I saw him.
Maybe it was the weight of his stare, or the way the air shifted when I walked into the room. The bar was half-lit, jazz low in the background, and my dress—short, black, silk—clung to the small of my back like it knew it was being watched.
I ordered a drink. His eyes followed the movement of my lips as I said “Old Fashioned.”
He didn’t look away when I turned to face him.
And I didn’t either.
It was the kind of stare that strips, slowly. Not crude. Not hungry. Curious. Patient. Like he wanted to watch the heat rise up my thighs, inch by inch, without ever touching me.
So I gave him something to watch.
I crossed my legs slowly, letting the fabric pull up just enough. Tilted my glass toward the light so it caught the red of my lipstick. Tapped one finger on the rim with deliberate rhythm—1, 2, 3.
His lips curved into the smallest smile.
The air between us stretched thin.
When I slid off the stool and walked past him toward the restroom, I felt him rise.
I paused outside the door—not out of fear, but out of the kind of anticipation that starts between your legs and climbs up your spine like a vine.
He stopped a foot behind me.
“Are you going to say something?” I asked, not turning around.
“No,” he said. “I was hoping to listen.”
I pushed open the restroom door.
He followed.
It was clean, candle-lit, quiet—meant for two, not made for this.
He leaned against the door once it shut behind him. “I watched you tease me for fifteen minutes,” he said. “Now I want to see what you do when someone teases back.”
I walked up to him, slow. Close enough for my breath to find his collarbone. Close enough that I could smell whiskey and something woody on his shirt.
I didn’t kiss him.
I pulled his hand up and placed it at the center of my chest.
“Start here.”
His palm was hot. His thumb traced the curve of my breast. Then he slipped his hand inside my dress, down the slope of my ribs, to the place just below my belly button that always goes soft first when I’m about to fall apart.
I bit my lip. Not from nerves. From need.
He dropped to his knees.
And then—God—his mouth.
He kissed through the silk. Tongue flat and firm against the fabric that was already soaked through. He didn’t pull my panties aside. He just mouthed against them—pressing, licking, making me feel like every slow second was a decision he made just for me.
When he finally slid the silk down and exposed me, the air hit my skin like a lover’s first breath. I shivered.
His tongue moved with purpose. Up, down, circle. Then again. Slower. Then rougher. Two fingers slid in. He curled them gently—just like that—and I gasped.
He kept his eyes on mine as I came. My fingers clutching his hair, my head tipping back, my thighs trembling around his jaw.
After, I tugged him up.
I kissed him.
Tasted myself on his lips.
“You still want to listen?” I whispered.
He nodded.
“I’ll be moaning your name next time,” I said. “You better be close enough to hear it.”
