We're all swapping seats throughout the meal, moving around, talking, laughing. Halfway through I sit down next to him. He flirts with me. I smile. I giggle at his jokes. His eyes meet mine and then, very deliberately, very slowly, unseen by anyone else, he places his hand on my leg under the table.
Just above my knee.
We both look at his hand. My heart jumps. Pounds. Races. My cheeks are burning. I glance back at him. Our eyes meet. Neither of us says anything. I don't remove his hand. I don't move my leg. I don't do anything at all. He too does nothing, except in his case, doing nothing means his hand remains exactly where he placed it. On my leg. I'm wearing a skirt. A short pleated skirt and his hand isn't on my skirt. It's on my leg between the hem and my knee and I'm not wearing pantyhose or leggings or anything else that covers me.
His fingers burn into my skin. He starts talking to someone on the other side of the round table. His hand remains where he's placed it. I do nothing. I sit there and his hand on me, unmoving, is the most sensual thing that's ever happened to me in my entire life. I can barely breathe for the excitement that's sweeping through me. My skin flushes, burns, tingles. I sit there, quite still, not quite trembling but I'm limp with excitement and if there was no-one else here besides him and me, I'd moan out loud. He glances back to me. We look at each other. My face burns.
He smiles. He's still smiling as his hand moves higher, slowly stroking my leg, out of sight under the tablecloth now. Now I move. Not to remove his hand though. Instead, I lean in towards the table, flick the tablecloth up to cover my legs, rest my elbows on the table just so as to make sure no-one can see. I'm so excited. His hand slides higher, it's brushing the hem of my skirt now and my skirt isn't a long one. His fingers are on the skin of my inner thigh and I'm mesmerized. Enthralled. Shaking.
Higher. His hand moves higher.
It's not a tight skirt. That's what makes what happens next so easy to happen. His hand slides under my skirt. My heartbeat is frantic as his fingers almost brush my panties. Again and again. My knees twitch a little apart. Further apart. I'm making more room for his hand, for his fingers to brush the soft skin of my inner thighs. My cheeks are pink. With trembling hands, I sip on someone else's wine to make an excuse for the pink. My nipples are swollen, hard, aching. I'm melting inside the way I do in my bed at night when I'm fantasizing about him. This isn't a fantasy though and I know my panties are wet.
I'm so wet.
Even wetter than when I fantasize about him at night because this isn't a fantasy and it's his hand and it's under my skirt and I'm dying here. I'm disappointed when his wife joins us, she smiles at me. I smile back, not feeling guilty at all that his hand is under my skirt as I smile at her. I'm disappointed when his hand eases from me. I'm disappointed but I'm not really surprised. Why should I be? She's his wife, not me. It wouldn't be good if she saw where his hand was.
It doesn't happen again, even after his wife moves off to talk to someone else. He smiles at me but his hand doesn't return. When we're leaving, he smiles at me but he says nothing other than the usual inanities. How could he? His wife's next to him. I smile back, still flushed, still excited. Still wet with that overwhelming excitement. They tease me about my pink cheeks.
My Dad asks me if I've been drinking. He's laughing at me. "You've got your Mom's Asian no-alcohol genes, Kylie," he says.
I giggle, thinking that no, it's not the no-alcohol genes, it's another set of genes entirely that are kicking in to turn my cheeks pink. The same genes that kicked in years ago to set my Chinese Mom chasing my very Caucasian Dad. When I look at Nick, I know exactly which genes those are. They're the genes that tell a girl that she needs to find a man like Nick. Nick's successful, he's fit, and he's handsome in a rugged kind of a way. I know I have the teenage crush thing to end all teenage crush things on him. Nick laughs. I think he knows it too. I wonder if he'll do anything about it. I hope he will. I'm going to do my best to help things along.
Nick does say one more thing to me just before all of us head for home. We're in the parking lot next to the restaurant, everyone's talking loudly. He walks across to where I'm standing by Dad's car. Waiting. He's smiling. "Did you enjoy this evening, Kylie?"
I smile back. I'm blushing, thinking of his hand under my skirt. Touching me. Almost touching me where I've never let my boyfriend touch me. Where I think I would have let Nick touch me if no-one else had been there. Where he touches me in my fantasies about him. Except tonight wasn't a fantasy. "Yes," I reply.
"Everything?" He raises an eyebrow. I love the way he does that.
I giggle. My cheeks flush pink all over again. "Especially everything."
"Well, you should drop by my office on your way home from college sometime," he says. "I'd love to see you. Just you and me." He smiles. I smile back, saying nothing. My heartbeat is frantic.
My parents join us, there's no time for him to say anything else just to me but my mind is a whirl. My mind is still whirling all the way home. He's asked me to drop by? He's interested in me? But he's married. Do I care? So many thoughts, all of them confused, mixed in together, formless. His hand on my thigh. Stroking me. I close my eyes and I feel his fingers on me.
Later, at home, in my bed, I'm still thinking. I can't stop. His hand on my leg, stroking, stroking all the way up under my skirt, so high, almost touching me. I've touched myself before, I know what my own fingers feel like but his? They felt so different. Heart-stoppingly different. I'm breathing faster just thinking about it.
Tonight I have to touch myself. I need to or I'll be awake all night fantasizing about his hand under my skirt. I don't do this very often but when I do, it's because I'm hot about a guy. It's funny, but I've never done this while I've been thinking about my boyfriend. It's always been some other guy. A couple of months ago it was this lecturer at College. Tonight, it's Nick that has me all steamed up. I undress, take a quick shower, climb naked between the sheets, closing my eyes, my hands sliding over my thighs. I'm remembering Nick's hand there, touching me and it's so recent that it's easy to recall.
My recall is vivid. It's almost like Nick's hand is stroking me there now, high on my inner thigh. My other hand moves upwards and I'm imagining it's his, sliding over my stomach, onto my breasts, stroking my nipples, teasing them to a rubbery firmness that I like, down over my ribs to my stomach and back up to my breasts again, rolling my nipples between thumb and forefinger. The fingers of my other hand brush my thighs, the soft skin of my inner thighs. I part my legs the way I'd part them for Nick, slowly, my knees edging apart.
Wider apart. My hand strokes, my fingers tease my labia, my hips jerk at my own touch and if it were his fingers there, I'd moan out loud. My fingertips brush lightly. I think of Nick's fingers touching me there and my lips swell, they moisten, they're wet and slippery as I brush across my entrance, circling, teasing. My other hand runs across my breasts, my nipples, moving from one to the other, backwards and forwards and I wish it were him doing that to me.
