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Is it really worse to add intercourse to that?
No.
It doesn't matter.
I want him too much. I've denied myself for too long. I'm not willing to do it again.
I lean into his touch.
He brings his hand to my shoulder. The brush of his fingertips against my skin. That's all it takes for me to know this is the right choice.
Maybe it's not the smartest choice, maybe I'm not the best friend, maybe I'm out of my mind—
I'm still making the right choice.
Desire pushes my thoughts away. The surroundings overpower me. The gold fixings and dim lights and lush plants. And Jackson in all linen, the tropical, wealthy half of the bar.
I'm in a cheap, sexy sequin dress. The tacky, over-the-top, let's drink and fuck and throw money on craps tables half of the bar. But I don't feel embarrassed about my lack of conventional class. The tawdry look makes my skin flush.
That's the appeal of Las Vegas. It's sexy and classy and trashy and tacky all at the same time.
Everything we've done tonight is all mixed together in a perfect blend of sass and class, and all of it is screaming sex.
Or maybe some of that is me.
I want to mount him so badly.
Jackson looks around the space carefully. Even after three drinks, he's lucid enough to survey the scene.
"I didn't take you for a tiki girl," he says.
"I'm not. I have other aims." The ones outside, by the pool. This bar was on a Reddit thread of the best places to have sex in public in Las Vegas. One user even assured others the staff won't call the authorities if they catch you. Sometimes, they don't even ask people to stop. They spot the exhibitionists, noddo your thing, and go about their business.
Maybe she got that info in a porno. Maybe it's a fantasy.
I'm tipsy enough I don't care. I want to indulge my fantasies.
I take his hand and move toward the bar. "After you."
Jackson hails the bartender. Of course, he doesn't order a mix of rum and tropical fruit. He orders an old-fashioned.
Somehow, the classic cocktail doesn't sound obnoxious on his lips. It suits him.
I copy his move at the strip club and ask for the same. I want to taste what's on his lips. I want to live in his world for a minute. No, in my fantasy world.
Where he wears old-timey suits and banters like Cary Grant and drinks whiskey in a wide glass.
Even so, I tease him about the beverage. "Did you get that fromMad Men?" I ask as the bartender stirs our drinks.
Jackson laughs with surprise. "The TV show?"
I nod. "You dress like Don Draper." He does wear a lot of suits. And that watch. He's always in that watch.
Of course, Jackson has no idea who I'm talking about. He shakes his head. "I dress like who?"
"The lead character."
"On the television programMad Men?"
