Not Everything Is About Him
by Firerose
‘Just what does it take to make you shut up?’
she enquired. She uncrossed her legs, leaned across, stretched
out one long finger and dragged the crimsoned nail slowly from my
knee along my thigh over the leathers. (Their status instantly
changed from tight to over-tight.)
I have to admit, I was a little taken aback. I’d thought she had been interested in my (carefully edited) account of my travels before I’d settled in LA – she’d nodded and smiled and maintained eye contact throughout—but I could take a hint.
‘Car’s round the back,’ she added, as if wondering whether this obtuse Englishman needed an even broader hint. She withdrew her hand, retrieved her handbag, dived for her keys and then for the door.
I downed the remains of my vodka (too expensive to waste), and started after her. Outside, away from the bluish fluorescent glare of that particularly tacky bar, she looked softer, younger, and her blonde curls bobbed an invitation about her bare shoulders as she strode ahead of me down the alley. When she reached the car, she got into the back and slid across the seat, and for a moment I wondered if she just wanted me to drive her home—then I realised, and clambered in after her, drawing the door to. (It didn’t quite shut and I had to fumble, then slam it home.)
‘What—’
‘Didn’t I tell you to shut up,’ she said in what I suppose could only be described as a sexy drawl, and then started doing something with those long fingers of hers and my crotch that severely curtailed my ability to speak.
Her lipstick felt greasy under my lips and tasted a bit like Germolene, but the skin under those curls tasted both salt and sweet, like an oatcake dipped in milky tea. The scent of my warm leathers and other, warmer, things overwhelmed the air – I gulped a long deep breath, it was like breathing sex.
She flicked her pale hair off her face, and in the vanity light (must have not managed to close the door properly), she could have been her. And then I must be… What would it be like, I wondered, to nuzzle against this softness, so smooth and warm, knowing that one slip, one moment of control lost – of power resumed – and she could be stretched out limp and cold and pale?
My leathers stretched tighter still, and there was something like a growl in my throat as I dipped my head to her neck, to the nipple that’d already escaped that ludicrously skimpy halter top, then lower still, easing her even skimpier skirt up over her bare thighs to reveal what I’d already guessed—she must have removed her panties in the Ladies. But the light was just enough to show the curls nesting there and bubbling down her thighs were dark, and I was catapulted back to reality so rapidly that I almost fumbled to push up my glasses before mercifully remembering, just in time, that I’d left them at the apartment this evening.
‘Get a move on,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got all night.’
You had sex last night with a
bleached blonde
Angel, in Dear Boy
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