I see you looking in my direction but I pretend not to notice. I take another sip of wine and laugh at some vacuous joke, as if my full attention is with those old friends of your parents I’m standing with. But it’s not. I know it’s not, and my pretending doesn’t fool you at all.
The elderly gent next to me paws my arm and asks me a question about myself. I talk glibly about my job, my cat, my flat and you. There’s never any escaping you. I can sense you less than thirty feet away, leaning against that pillar by the buffet, your arms folded and that enigmatic smile on your face. Your eyes bore into me. I can feel your thoughts tearing through the silk I’m wearing until I’m standing naked, aroused and longing for your touch.
You know I want you.
Two hours ago you zipped me into this very dress. You’d patiently waited in almost every fitting room in London while I looked for the perfect one, shrugging at people in resignation as they gave you sympathetic smiles. I knew I’d found it when I came out to show you the flimsy red silk clinging to my curves and you suddenly sat up straighter, unable to tear your eyes away from me. The sense of power over you was intoxicating, and we barely made it back to the flat before we fucked each other senseless.
The best money you’d ever spent on a dress, you said.
I’m remembering it now, as I know you are. Those memories are more real than the polite conversation tinkling around me. Your aunt, so prim and proper with her antique pearls and ramrod-straight back, is extolling the virtues of good table linen. I nod and make assenting noises with my throat but elsewhere I can feel your hands and lips sliding down my body, seeking out places to make me gasp with pleasure. Your tongue circles one of my nipples, so so lightly that the pleasure is excruciating and then you blow over it, making me shiver and whimper for more.
I catch your eye across the room and you blush.
You’re thinking of me. I knew you would be. I made sure of it when I let you see that I wasn’t wearing any underwear under this dress. A pair of lacy hold-up stockings and that’s everything. You could take me at any time you wanted, touch me intimately right here and now if you chose and you’re thinking of doing it all the time. This very polite and well-mannered gathering would die of shock if they knew our secret and that just fuels our fire.
Your mother calls me over. I excuse myself and move across the room, knowing that your eyes are following me every step of the way. The silk brushes against my skin, sensual caresses of fabric that make me long for you even more. You can see me better from here. I’m introduced to someone I’m sure I’ve met before somewhere and before I know where I am, he trots me out onto the floor to dance.
I know you’ll be there in an instant, cutting in to waltz with me yourself. I remember the dreaded dance lessons at school when we were taught the steps, feeling your erection grow as you ‘accidentally’ brushed against me: back-two-three, side-two-three. I hadn’t realised you felt that way about me until then, but now I am certain you do. You’re in such tantalising proximity when we dance. It’s only a matter of time.
Your hand slides across my back, holding me close as we revolve around the floor. Neither of us is good at this sort of dancing, but it doesn’t matter. I whisper what I’d like to do to you in your ear. Your breathing is suddenly short. You’re tense, ready to spring. I can feel it. I rub your arm lightly and you close your eyes for a moment and give an almost imperceptible moan. Your hand moves slowly down towards my arse and my breath catches. I’m imagining you parting my cheeks and using your fingers to drive me wild. Your pelvis jerks towards mine with similar imaginings.
This is a game where neither of us wins: or perhaps both of us do.
