I inched closer, watching her weave through the crowd. Hands reached out, groping her thighs, her breasts, and she didn’t flinch – she slowed her walk, letting them touch, even pausing to press herself into a stranger’s palm. My pulse pounded, and I couldn’t stop myself. I reached out, my fingers brushing her inner thigh, slipping briefly into her slick heat before pulling back. I brought my hand to my lips, tasting her – sweet, musky, like a drug I didn’t know I needed.
She glanced at me, then slid onto the lap of another guy, kissing him with sloppy, hungry intensity while her husband was busy nibbling at another woman’s neck. The four of them stood, heading toward what I figured was a private suite they’d reserved.
That night burned itself into my brain. I couldn’t shake the image of her, the taste of her, the way she gave herself over so completely. I started hanging out with my sister more, dropping by their place with excuses – a barbecue, a boxing match on TV, anything to get us drinking together. I’d pour the bourbon, waiting for the moment to muster the nerve to tell her how much I wanted her, how I’d planned it all in my head.
And yeah, it paid off – not how they saw it coming, but for me, it was a fantasy I’d been crafting for months…
Image is illustrative. View Source.
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