“You should let me make you dinner before you go back to school. It would be fun to spend some time with you outside of work.”
Well, there it was. The curious alchemy of proximity and boredom that had been brewing all summer since Nicole showed up for work at the warehouse was now a formal declaration of intent. She was in her mid-20s maybe, tawny-haired, wiry, and if this is the right word a bit feral-looking though not in an unattractive way.
I never gave Nicole much of a though at all until about a week before I was scheduled to quit and she mentioned seeing some crap called I Was A Mafia Princess or something on TV. Nicole was just fascinated by the premise and kept going on and on about how sexy the whole thing was, how passionate Italian men were, how the whole thing turned her on.
“Jimmy, aren’t you Italian…?”
I admitted that I was in some modest percentage of my heritage, and Nicole was thrilled.
“I knew it, I knew it!” she boasted. “You just have that look.”
Which led to my dinner invitation, and since I had some time to kill before I moved back to school, dinner sounded dandy. I agreed to stop by her house that Saturday night around seven for “spaghetti and a full Italian meal! ” All that pasta in the late August heat didn’t sound terribly appetizing, but I suspected there would be other courses to consider.
Nicole greeted me at the door with a big smile and a cuter outfit than the clothes she wore to work, cutoffs and an open cotton blouse with a wife-beater tank top underneath. She was barefoot; if there is anything sexier than barefoot women in the summer, I’m not brave enough to see it.
Fortunately for my stunted courage, the reason for my invitation became obvious almost right away. Nicole sat me down on the couch and asked from the kitchen what I wanted to drink. I requested bourbon and coke, if she had it, and she cooed that bourbon was her favorite beverage to lick off her lovers. So when she brought the drinks over in separate glasses, I picked up the soda and took a sip while pouring the bourbon down the front of my shirt.
“Ooh, honey, I should have brought you the bottle,” she smiled, taking the glass out of my hand and proceeding to undo my shirt’s buttons. An eager tongue emerged from her grin, lapping up the amber streams across my chest.
“I am so thirsty, it must be the heat or something… ”
Or something, I mumbled in reply, and her grin grew wider.
I started stroking her head with one hand and sliding the other down her shoulders and back to her denim-clad bottom, which was looking quite tasty. She asked if I liked Nikki’s ass; it was a little more 3rd-person than I was expecting, but no matter who was asking or on whose behalf, the answer was the same: hell, yes.