...wish that we could lose this crowd/maybe it's better in this way...
His hands slide under my shirt, first from the neckline, then from the hem. It rides up dangerously. His palms are smooth and cool against my skin, magical fingers long and touching with just the right amount of pressure. Ahhhh.
"You could sit down."
Yes, maybe I’d better.
He hits a particular spot, and I groan.
"You’re carrying a lot of tension in your back...here...and here....oh, and definitely here."
His clever (oh, I had forgotten how very clever) fingers search out sore spots I didn’t know I had. I’m melting on the table, purring, hair spilling around shoulders and pooling on knees. My fur jacket slips to the floor.
I'll not have enough tension left to stand when you’re done with me.
He looked at me, cocked his head to the side, asked, “Headache?”
In fact, yes. And by the way, it’s somebody special who can look at me and see my pain.
And then he started to work. Without being asked. He just turned me around to face away from him and began. It is this sort of careless intimacy that might lead people to believe there is ‘something’ between us. Well, that and the sounds I’m making.
Lia said she was bringing me a drink but at this rate I won’t need the drink. I’ll need a cigarette instead.
He smiles, a secret sort of ‘maybe we both will’ smile. His partner snaps another blackmail shot of the two of us.
We are in a restaurant, with nearly a hundred people I know or sort of know or almost know or used to know.
It doesn’t matter. I’m probably safer for their presence.
Probably we both are.
(Careless Whispers; Wham!)