I am sure it is not his looks that charm me. And neither is it his personality. It must be something else, something less obvious than his appearance or how he wears his two-piece suit.
Whatever it was, I knew from the first day he came into that bar that I wanted to get close to him. I wanted his hands on me, touching, feeling, and searching for what he could find.
Anything, of course.
So I remained patient. Far patient than a fox ready to pounce on its prey. After all, good things come to those who wait, don’t they?
And from what I could see about him, he was more than good. Best would be an understatement.
I know that my job as a waitress required me to be very friendly and helpful towards the patrons of the bar. One would think it would be easy enough.
But once I saw him the first time, I had to let go of all those thoughts. A raw instinct came over me and I began to fantasize things that are not supposed to be had in a workplace.
Things like holding him close. Or him holding me close.
His body close to mine and mine close to his. And his fingers tracing delicate lines across my body, a move that I would hope would satisfy the lustful yearnings of my entire being.
“Can I have another glass please?”
I jerk my head towards his direction. He is holding up a glass cup and waving it at me.
“Sure, sure,” I say as I jump behind the counter and reach for the bottle of fine champagne that I had served him.
I must have floated to his table because I am sure I did not hear or feel my feet move across the marble floor to get to him.
Once there, I smile and show him the bottle. “Would you like me to leave it with you?”
He grinned. “The entire bottle?”
“Sure. After all, this is the third time I am giving you a refill. You might as well keep the whole bottle.”
“How thoughtful of you,” he said as he reached for it.
And then his fingers wrapped around mine.
For a brief moment, I am stuck there, staring into his handsome face like someone lost and in need of directions.
I could feel my heart race as he left his hand there and regarded me. “Is something wrong?”
Of course everything was wrong, I screamed to myself. I didn’t want him to let go of my hand. I didn’t want him to stop talking. And I surely didn’t want him to leave the bar.
“Is there?” I mumble, without thinking.
“You said I could have the bottle. But you don’t seem willing to leave it.”
I pull my hand away. “No, no, not at all. You can have it.” You can have me as well, I scream to myself.
He nods and as he pours himself another glass, I turn to take my leave.
I am still caressing my hand, relishing the feel of his hand against mine. I do not want to forget how it felt when he touched me.
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