Red Wine — Jaye Raymee

He is sitting at the bar, doing what he does best: watching.  On one end, two salesmen are liquoring up before heading out on the town, looking for action to take back to their rooms.  At the other, two women are discussing something intently, earnestly.  He thinks he’s figured them out – both dressed in Friday casual, but the kind of Friday casual that you find in a lawyer’s office, not the sweatshirt and jeans women wear in most offices.  They have already rebuffed the salesmen’s attempt to buy them drinks.  Obviously, they prefer each-other’s company, at least at the bar…probably for the night.  The blond, in a loose, cream colored silk top with a wide collar, grey linen jacket, and matching skirt, pushes her hair back with one hand as she looks away from her companion, past him, past the salesmen, to the door out of the bar, out of the hotel, into the world.  He likes that gesture, the smooth way women have of fixing themselves.

The brunette places a hand on the blonde’s arm, but gets shrugged off.  Perhaps he has misjudged their conversation, there seems to be some anger between them, but he thinks it’s tinged with sadness too, like the quarrel lovers have at a train station just before one leaves to return home, or like children who don’t want play-time to end but feel the daylight ending.  The blond stands, again unconsciously fixing her skirt: a quick smoothing with a practiced hand that indicates a woman who is always aware of the power of her appearance.  He notices that her breasts are large, pushing out the lapels of her jacket and creating a small gap between the pearl buttons of her blouse.  As she turns her head to her companion, the gap stretches wider and he catches a glimpse of white skin held firm in whiter lace.  A glimpse only, then gone, like the blond herself as she moves out of the room, leaving him with a vague sense of abandonment, echoed in the slight slump of the brunette’s shoulders as she looks after her departed companion.  A scent remains, something floral…but quickly suppressed by the smoke from the cigarette that the brunette has lit as soon as her friend is out of sight.

He is intrigued now.  She is obviously a smoker, but for the last hour she has not had one, perhaps in deference to her companion.  He sees that she is drinking red wine, and he thinks back to a certain night in a certain town when the world went to hell between bottles of cheap Chianti and expensive French cigarettes.  He shakes off the memory, and refocuses on the woman.  Like her friend, she is dressed in a type of Friday Casual, but slightly more conservatively than the one who left.  Her dark jacket is buttoned tight over her red blouse, her skirt is longer.  Her breasts are smaller than her companion’s, but her legs are more shapely, covered in what his practiced eye recognizes not as nylons but as silk stockings.  He smiles a bit when he notices that she is wearing a garter belt.  The ribbons under her skirt raise a small shadow that most would ignore.  However, he notices.  This is what he does – notices, understands,”gets” what others miss.

Perhaps it is this ability that makes him ask her to join him for dinner in the bar.  As she walks ahead of him, the whisper of silk as her legs move hints of secrets that he will never know.  The floral scent of her companion lingers around her, but there is a deeper, musky undercurrent that he can almost taste on the back of his tongue.  Her own perfume, which he recognizes as Poison, is almost an afterthought to this deeper scent.  She sits across from him, still smoking, and through dinner tells him nothing.  Oh, they talk, but nothing is communicated, nothing really said.  He begins to sense that she is one of those who are constantly waiting, waiting for the world to happen to her, for things to work out, for a lover to approach.  Waiting for a key to unlock her mystery.

And that is a surprise.  He finds her mysterious.  His own wine has made him mellow, and he begins to think that she is deeper than she appears.  Something in the way she tilts her head back when making an inane comment, as if she is evaluating whether he sees that she is being deliberately shallow, piques his interest.  They do not discuss her companion, although he is more certain than ever that they were lovers.  Briefly, he can imagine the blond hair mingling with the darker brunette on a black silk pillow; he can see the perfectly manicured scarlet nails stroking the white breast he had glimpsed earlier.  Perhaps it is this image that makes him bold.  He pushes closer to the table and slips off his shoe.  His own black-sheathed foot makes contact with her calf, and he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause to see her reaction, but moves past her knees, meets a momentary resistance between her thighs, and then to his surprise feels her hand on his ankle, pressing him into her sex.  She looks at him across the white table cloth and smiles while she takes a sip of wine. Her lips leave an imprint that is the exact color of the wine in the glass.

Her other hand continues to hold him against her mound, heel pressed hard while her hips move just enough for him to feel the gentle pull of her naked flesh.  She is shaved, and he can feel the press of the garter belt that entwines her thighs on either side of his foot.  His stocking is drenched, and the musky odor he noticed before sharpens. He enjoys the fact that nobody is paying any attention to them, and that she can pull this off.  The only overt indication of what is going on between them is a slight flush on her cheeks, and the vibration he can feel building in her thighs as she grips his entire leg now between them.  His heel is caressed by the flesh of her tunnel, an eager sucking that makes him wonder what it would be like to have his tongue there, kissing her where the blond had been doing the same.

She gives a small gasp, her cheeks and neck flush darker, her grip tightens, and the moment between her picking up her glass and taking the last sip takes an eternity.  He can feel every fold of her as she strains against him, see every curl of smoke from her cigarette, and every fleck of gold in her eyes, which he realizes are green.

And it is over.  A small sigh, a drag on the cigarette, and he is pouring her another glass of wine as he slips his shoe back on.  Without a word, she butters a roll and continues eating.  He excuses himself to use the restroom and when he returns, she is gone.  When he gets the bill from the puzzled waiter, she has already paid for the wine.

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Read Jaye’s other sexy stories published here on Every Night Erotica, here.

Jaye Raymee is a freelance writer currently living in Dublin, Ireland.  Reader feedback always welcome…every kink is interesting…