Catch Me If You Can

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A restaurant encounter between a man and woman.
1.7k words
4.48
13.8k
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Anajiel
Anajiel
3 Followers

It began as these things often do.

She blew in from the street, her coat held around her in an attempt to combat the chill in the outside air. Her hair was windblown and tousled as she slipped into the seat next to him and tossed a crumpled piece of paper holding directions unceremoniously onto the table in front of her.

They went on about mundane things like the weather, the wind, the season. She scooted her car keys back and forth across the shiny table with her equally shiny manicured nails. She ordered coffee. He ordered a beer. She made hers Irish with something out of her purse, and for a few moments they nursed their drinks in silence and contemplated each other.

In a way you could say the two of them matched each other, at least in the contrast of light and dark. Each had long angled fingers that moved just a little too much when they talked, whether to touch a spoon, fiddle with a sugar packet, or something equally idle. They each had almond-shaped eyes. They both wore black. They both liked the retro quality of the restaurant with its polished wooden banisters, cracked leather seats and worn tile floors. She particularly found comfort in the sizzle of food being prepared on the grills somewhere behind them, the nondescript scent of "warm" that permeated the air from years of preparation and serving within these walls. It took the chill out from the air outside and created an intimate atmosphere, even with the silhouette of skyscrapers looming somewhere beyond the double glass doors leading outside.

It began as these things often do.

They sat shoulder to shoulder and occasionally a knee would brush against knee, or ankle against ankle, toe against toe. The seat was formed in a semi-circle, hugged the equally circular table in the corner so they sat close, and said little.

They ordered food and she pushed her egg rolls around her plate, nibbling occasionally, sprinkling soy sauce, all idle gestures that meant little. They talked of work and politics. He mentioned a bar on the other side of the city. She commented that she'd never been there. He noted that the deep red paint on her lips didn't come off on the edge of her coffee cup, didn't smudge on her napkin. Everything was carefully precise about her makeup, while her hair remained wild, the collar on her shirt slightly askew. She offered a smile, dark lashes lowering over dark eyes.

Conversation lapsed again.

Finally, teeth chewing against her bottom lip in thought while she did it, she slid her hand across the cracked deep red of the seat until it came to rest lightly on his knee. He was suddenly tense against her shoulder, but his hand came to rest atop hers. His breathing had become utterly silent, he held himself carefully, as though it were the barrel of a gun pressed against his knee instead of her fingernails.

She found it endearing and a smile passed over her features again, hidden behind the fall of her hair and she glanced toward the glass doors, at the beginning twinkle of lights as the day grew darker and threatened to disappear. Her fingertips memorized the texture of the black denim beneath them, traced the alphabet over his knee with the slightest of tremors, the warmth of his hand shifting over hers as she did.

She trailed her nails lightly up his thigh and did not dare a glance at him as she did. He felt the muscles in his back tense in reaction to the attention. When she covered his hand with hers he looked at her. Her head was leaned back against the seat, her darkly shadowed eyes closed. When she drew his hand to her leg he let her, barely daring to breathe. She held her breath and kept her eyes closed, fighting every instinct and impulse she had to open them and look to see if he was looking at her, to see what his expression might be as she slid his hand up her thigh, under the black business skirt, slid his fingers further still to silently show him that there was nothing else.

It began as these things often do.

He moved his fingers up and watched her face as he did. She was both unabashed and perfectly composed as she leaned there, her hair a frame for the portrait of her face, one hand lying composedly over the coat she had neatly folded on her lap. Passing customers may give her an odd glance, wondering if she were asleep or not feeling well, but that was all. He watched her face as his thumb rubbed against the silky hem of her skirt while his fingertips played against her lips, moved between them deftly and dipped into her moist heat. He watched as her teeth bit her bottom lip when he did, and he smiled to himself. Quietly and with the barest of movements he searched out the jewel of her pleasures, her secret, and it was then her eyes opened just enough to stare at him, the tip of her tongue appearing against her dark lips for just a moment before her teeth bit down once again as her thighs trembled around his wrist.

She moved ever-so-slightly and leaned her head against his shoulder, her lips close to his ear. She did not give voice to anything, but the varying tone of her breath was all he needed as it pulsed against his throat and his fingers moved. He played her like an instrument, her breaths the chords his fingers strummed from her. When he carefully dipped lower, a small sound escaped her throat, a tiny mewling sound that echoed intimately in his ear and he felt her lips brush lightly against his flesh as she moved and hooked her knee over his.

Please. There was no voice, merely the push of her breath that formed the word as he drove his fingers home, felt them engulfed in the warmth and the wet, the fire and the ice that rested inside of her. Her nails trailed lightly over his chest, pulled absently at the buttons of his shirt with no intention of undoing them. He felt the press of her breasts against his side, the fall of her hair over his shoulder as she dipped her head, rubbed her cheek against his shoulder and bit her lip as she tried not to cry out. A woman paying for her take-out passed a curious glance their way, took her change, and headed for the exit without looking again.

She threw her head back and he gazed down at her heavy-lidded eyes, the color that had crept into her pale cheeks under his attentions. Her lips were parted and they trembled as she held his gaze. Her thighs quaked around him as he strummed her deepest chord, and then her eyes widened with the shock and surprise of the sensation that suddenly flowed over her as the universe's edge crept up and threw her over by surprise. She bit her lip against crying out as her muscles clenched around his fingers, held him prisoner in her throes of pleasure, her lean fingers twirling in the sleeve of his shirt, drawing the fabric taut as she shook her head slowly from side to side in her release.

He took his time in pulling himself from her and she took his hand in hers. He watched as her pink tongue cleansed herself from his fingers, dark eyes watching him all the while. The invitation was there, unspoken, the silent request for more, if he was willing to hunt her and take it.

It began as these things often do.

They gathered their things; she paid for their food while balancing her coat and juggling her car keys, the muscles in her legs jumping as they struggled to hold her upright in her shiny black heels. She moved for the glass exit and waited outside for him, leaning against the faded brick of the building. She rummaged through her purse and pulled out her cigarette case, her mind reeling as she pulled one out and hunted out a lighter for it.

He appeared on the street beside her and came to stand in front of her, taking her cigarette and inhaling deeply before handing it to her, the world in his eyes as he watched her.

She moved forward and brought her hand to his face, tracing the contours of his cheek, the line of his jaw as she gazed into his eyes, her heart stuck in her throat.

It began as these things often do.

She leaned forward slowly, carefully, as though sudden action would spook him. She breathed in the scent of him as she paused inches from his lips, eyes roaming over his face, lingering on his mouth. Her breath beat out a staccato rhythm against his mouth that matched the beating of her heart. What they'd done before earlier had been easy. This was the hard part, the terrifying part. And slowly, neither knowing which had done it, the distance between them closed. Their mouths collided softly and her lips parted beneath his eagerly, offered herself to him. She tasted of coffee and cinnamon and her tongue wound his with serpentine certainty, her mouth sucking him in deeper. Her hands trailed up and down his sides as she offered herself to him, as she possessed his mouth with her own as though she were drowning and he the last air she would breathe.

His hands moved to her hair, fingers entangling themselves as the wind blew around them both. She met his gaze while they kissed and then allowed her eyes to flutter closed. When they parted ever-so-slightly her teeth nipped at him, teased at him, her tongue licking a deft line against his bottom lip before she reluctantly drew herself away from him.

It began as these things often do.

She backed away with a smile on her lips, her heels clicking against the sidewalk, her hips swaying. She reached for her car keys, watching him all the while. The game had begun, the gamble of hearts and heat, of passion and soul. She paused and sent her whispered challenge, her whispered request, her prayer on the wind to reach his ears as she pulled open the driver's side door.

"Catch me if you can..."

Anajiel
Anajiel
3 Followers
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CAP811CAP811over 14 years ago
smooth

I liked this one - every sentence smooth and sultry. Anajiel can write!

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