He knew what I was thinking without my saying a word. I could sense it from across the room.
I sat demurely, idly flicking through a magazine which I couldn't really manage to read under the mellow lighting scheme. He regarded me carefully from his seat at the bar, as if he could mesmerize me into getting up and joining him.
But I wouldn't. He knew I wouldn't. I was waiting for him to make the move. I wasn't toying with him, it's merely that this is my own personal watershed: allow me to feel desired, and I would reward him.
Tenfold.
With a flick of my wrist I summoned a waiter, and ordered a drink ("Single malt, rocks, please"), which arrived gratifyingly quickly. I sipped slowly, still not looking directly at him. Instead I gazed at him via the bronze mirrored tiles that were strategically, yet seemingly randomly, placed around walls of the room.
I couldn't help but feel a surge of power... I knew how desperately he wanted me to be the one to make the first move, and I had no intention of doing so. I knew he would break. I knew he'd come to me. I knew... and I so wanted him to.
And I was right. He did.
He slid into the booth next to me, and made himself comfortable. He wasn't too close, or too distant. Sitting with his body half-turned towards me, leaning his elbow on the leather-covered seat cushion, our eyes met for the first time.
I smiled... his eyes were more welcoming than I could have hoped, more friendly than I would have imagined and the level of desire in them matched the that of my own.
I cleared my throat, softly.
"I'm so glad we finally met. You look just as you did in the photo, but... better. If you know what I mean."
I giggled, betraying for the first time how nervous I was, despite my tableau of studied and careless poise. He laid a comforting hand on my arm, and unobtrusively edged closer to me.
"I'm just as glad. And thank you. So do you."
The ice thus broken, we began to relax, and started talking to each other in the manner in which we'd become so comfortable over the phone those preceding few weeks. As the conversation flowed effortlessly, I found myself wondering how the curve of his shoulder would feel to the touch, especially under the expensive tailored shirt he was wearing.
Without thinking, I lifted my arm, and ran my fingers gently up his arm, and along his shoulder, to his neck; delighting in the smoothness of the linen beneath my fingertips, and the firmness of the sinew that lay beneath it. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he turned his head and nipped at my fingers, catching my index and middle fingers in his mouth, and beginning to softly suck on them.
The shivers already running down my spine increased, and once again our eyes met.
I moved closer and edged my other hand onto his leg, under the table. Gently I palpated and massaged his inner thigh, deliberately avoiding his crotch area, aside from the occasional straying of one finger over his fly. He was hard already -- as hard as I was wet... and he was dying for me to touch him.
And god, I so wanted to.
The massaging was sending him into paroxysms of delight and anticipation of what was yet to come. I sensed, correctly, that he wanted to move to the next stage of the evening. I indicated that I understood this by removing my hand from his leg, and using it to down my scotch in one, before I turned and looked at him intently.
