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“Enjoy,” he says, placing the bottle and glass on the table.
I unscrew the cap and pour a generous glass. It tastes good, fruity and dark. Another gulp and I savour the taste, the buzz, remembering my client saying he’d be savouring watching me.
Bolstered by the wine buzz and thoughts of filthy things to come, I shrug my coat off and let it fall over the back of the chair, a good backdrop to my exposed red cami and my nipples poking through the fabric.
I pick up my glass and glance around again. Not one of my targets looks my way.
I wonder where he is.
I wonder who he is.
I wonder if he can see me.
I wonder if he sees just how tired I am for real.
“Thanks,” I say to the waitress when my cottage pie arrives, and use the opportunity for more playacting. “I’m so beat, I hope I make it through it. Looks delicious.”
She smiles. “Loads of potatoes. Should send you off to dreamland.”
I eat slowly, savouring every taste. I sip my drink, and let the ambience of the bustle swallow me up. My senses are blurring – nervous excitement mixed with genuine exhaustion. But buzzing like a bitch above all that, is horniness.
Fuck, this really is horny. Eating cottage pie with my nipples tingling, and my pussy aching. The urge to touch myself is surreal. Any more wine and I might just.
I shift in my seat. The cottage pie is good, but the sensation between my legs is better. I pick up a couple of fries and take a slow bite, letting my eyes wander carefully, teasing myself. That’s when I notice a new guy, he’s ginger, not very tall, he’s wearing a suit and glasses. He looks my way and smiles at me.
Shit.
I chew on my fries while trying to smile back, feeling like a fucking chipmunk.
Is that him?
But no. He’s joined by a woman. She pecks him on the lips, takes his arm and they head off out of the bar.
Fuck sake, Ian could be any one of the guys in here. So many different options.
I remind myself he might not even be in here and concentrate on my food.
I don’t want to know who he is anyway. Not really.
I want the anonymity of a stranger sliding himself into bed beside me. Such sleepy intimacy with someone I’ve never met. It gives me flutters. An innocent vulnerability at the idea of being asleep and taken from behind under the covers.
I’ve only eaten half of my food, but I can’t take any more. I pat my lips with my napkin then get to my feet, making a show of picking up my wine glass and drinking it down. I pick up my coat and bag but don’t put the coat on, just hook it over my arm as I saunter out of the bar, so many guys glancing my way, the horny chick in faded jeans and a cami top.
In the elevator, I rest my shoulder against the wall and press at my clit through my jeans.
Exhaustion, carbs, red wine, and the need for cock, is a tantalising mix.
Back in my room, I strip off everything and flop onto the bed. I’m wet already – flashing through the images of the guys in the bar, wondering which one will be fucking me. I rub myself as I think, the fantasies coming alive as I dig three fingers deep, moaning and shuddering as the orgasm jolts through me.
Fuck, that was nice. So heady. So dirty. I could drift so easily…
And almost do.
I force myself up and off the bed, and after a heavenly shower, I don my satin slip and check myself in the mirror. I wonder how much my client will be able to see of me as I slip under the covers. Should I leave a lamp on when I’m faking sleep? Damn, my kinky client wasn’t very specific at all. Ok, I’ve got it. I open the curtains, just enough to give the room a slight glow of light from the car park outside. I check the time on my phone. It’s just gone eleven. An hour until he gets here.
I turn the lamp off and relax, getting myself comfortable under the covers, facing away from the door.
And then I play with myself, again. Teasing myself for a second round. I work my clit just enough to keep me on edge, knowing I’ll be wet for my client when he sneaks into my bedroom later, the dirty intruder.
