9. Dutton #2
“That’s kind of the point,” I tease, bringing my face closer to hers.
She’s tall, and with her heels on, she’s only about an inch or so shorter than me.
Our lips are so close you could barely fit a sheet of paper between us.
When I hear her breath catch, I brush my lips across hers in a featherlight motion.
It feels so good, but it’s not nearly enough.
I’m torturing both of us, but I’m convinced that’s what tonight is all about.
Her body feels like heaven in my hands. Every time she presses against me, my cock throbs in response.
When her breasts brush against my chest, my blood feels like fire in my veins.
She whimpers as I pull away, but I offer her a smile, and I hope to hell it looks natural and not painful or sadistic.
“I’m thirsty,” I said, threading her fingers through mine and leading her to the bar in the back.
The bartender looks old enough to be my grandfather, but he beams when he sees Bridgette.
“Dollface! You made it back,” he says, his smile showing off his pearly white dentures.
“I did. And this is my friend, Dutton,” she says, gesturing to me.
Friend isn’t the title I’m going for, but I can be patient. We’re only about an hour into the date, so it seems premature to have the “let’s move in together” talk.
“Is this Marty?” I ask quietly, unsurprised when my voice comes out like a growl.
“This is Howard," she says, “He’s a great dancer, too, though.”
“She’s a flatterer, this one,” he says, and I notice that he hasn’t stopped smiling at Bridgette. “I used to be light on my feet, but my knee has been giving me fits lately. That’s why I figured I’d man the bar tonight. I’ll be back on the dance floor soon, though. What can I get you two?”
Bridgette orders a Dirty Shirley, and I ask for water, since I’m not much of a drinker. It’s apparently the correct order, though, because now Howard’s turning his chompers in my direction. “Smart man!” he exclaims. “You are driving precious cargo, after all.”
I pay for Bridgette’s drink, and we linger at the bar even after we’ve been served.
A few other older people stop by to chat with her, and I’m struck by how genuine she is.
She’s not just talking to them to be nice or polite.
She’s actually invested in the people around her.
After her friends head back to the dance floor, she scans the crowd and taps her feet to the music.
She’s watching the dancers, but I’m watching her.
More specifically, I’m tuned into the way her pouty lips wrap around the striped plastic straw in her drink.
“Are you having fun?” she asks, and I get the sense that she’s about to weigh my answer. Doesn’t matter to me. I’m honest to a fault, so I’m going to give her the truth.
“This is the best night I’ve had in a long time.”
“Really?” she sounds surprised as she takes another sip of her drink. Do I have a straw fetish? Is that a thing? It’s probably not very environmentally sound, but that’s the least of my worries right now.
“Absolutely,” I say, taking her empty drink cup and depositing it in the trash.
I do the same with mine before turning back to face her.
“Dance with me?” I ask. We are at an actual dance hall, so the question can’t be surprising, but the look of joy on her face tells me that Bridgette isn’t used to being indulged.
She seems like the type of person who’s always doing things for others, but who rarely gets the same treatment in return.
That’s about to change.
The song being pumped in through the speakers is a fast one, and I’m doing my best to keep up with her, even though I know damn well she’s taking it easy on me.
I’m an athlete, so my body is used to doing exactly what my brain tells it to, and I’ve been watching the other couples here enough to know a few basic moves.
I’m feeling pretty proud of myself for keeping time and for not stepping on her toes, but when she shimmies her ass to the rhythm of the music, all bets are off.
When she backs up into me, her ass still jiggling, I freeze.
It’s the wrong thing to do, but it was my only option. Well, it was either that or bend her over on the nearest surface and show off my own shimmy, but there are four senior citizens at the closest table, so that just seems rude.
Again, I’m an asshole, not a dick. Trust me, there’s a difference.
I’m still standing here frozen, like a fucking tool.
I wouldn’t blame her if she danced her way to the table where the old folks are sitting, grabbed one of their drinks, and spilled it on me.
She doesn’t, though. She’s too damn sweet for that.
Instead, she gazes at me, her eyes bright and questioning.
So, of course, I answer.
I reach for her just as the music changes to something a little slower.
Lifting my arm, I watch as she spins toward me, and I put my hand on her waist just before she finishes her final turn.
I press my body to hers so that her back is aligned with my front.
We move along to the music, and there’s no hiding the effect she has on me, especially since she’s still wriggling that damn fine backside of hers.
My cock is rock hard and nestled between her ass cheeks.
I know she feels it because every time she rubs up against my length, she looks over her shoulder at me with a knowing smile.
Two can play this fucking game, though, and winning games happens to be my specialty.
When she grinds on me again, I circle my hips to the same rhythm, matching her moves.
Then I flatten my palm against her stomach to hold her in place.
This time, when she looks over her shoulder at me, her lips are parted and her cheeks are extra rosy.
I rest my chin on her shoulder and get the best fucking view of her tits.
Holy hell, she’s perfect.. Much more of this dancing, and I really might not care how rude it would be to bend her over that table.
Shouldn’t those people be dancing anyway?
“You’re so fucking hot,” I say, the words falling from my lips because oxygen is like truth serum for a guy like me.
“You like my dance moves?” she asks, winking at me as she changes her rhythm and sways her hips side-to-side.
“I like you,” I tell her plainly. “I like your body. So damn much,” I say, punctuating my words by keeping one hand on her stomach and letting the other roam over her hip and down to her thigh.
If we didn’t have a bunch of geriatric chaperones, I’d slip my hand under her skirt and let Bridgette know exactly how much I like dancing with her.
“I like dancing,” she says, sounding breathless. “But I think I’m done now.”
The way her hands reach back and clutch my sides suggests otherwise, but I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Okay, that’s a lie. But I’m quickly becoming a go-anywhere-Bridgette-leads kind of guy. “If you’re done, what do you want to do next?”
“What are my options?” she asks, not slowing her movements in the least. She’s bewitched me, and I’m happy to be under her spell.
“We could go for ice cream,” I suggest, because even though I can’t wait to explore the chemistry between us, I also really like talking to her. “Or coffee, if shops are open this late. Or you could marry me and we could ditch our college careers and become professional dancers.”
She laughs, but I’m not joking. Hockey is my whole life, but that was until I realized that dancing with a sex goddess was a sport.
I’m questioning all my life choices right now.
If only I’d taken ballroom dancing classes instead of joining an ice hockey league with Blue when we were in second grade, my future could be holding this woman close day in and day out. .
“Drip is closed by now, but if you’re in the mood for coffee, we could go back to my dorm,” she says, turning her head toward me so that her lips are an inch away from mine.
“Do you have one of those fancy espresso machines?” I ask, thinking about her frothy drink at the coffee shop last week.
“I don’t even have a coffee pot,” she says.
“But you want to go back to your place for coffee?”I ask, tightening my grip on her and brushing my lips against the soft skin just below her ears.
“I really do.”
“And when we get there, but you can’t make any coffee, what are we going to do?” I ask.
She pushes her backside into me and circles her hips slowly, dragging out the sensation of her soft flesh over my rock hard dick. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”