2017

Fistful of hair

“I’ve already imagined your hair wrapped around my wrist or filling my fist in a dozen different ways.”

My lips part on their own accord and I struggle to swallow. The vodka based cocktail may not have been the best option, but I wanted to treat myself in case the night goes downhill. Now I’m suddenly thinking about an entirely different route this night might take me.

I know I should say something, but there’s nothing coming out. My eyes dart between his eyes and mouth, assessing and considering. Disbelief, hope, curiosity, anxiety, worry, I feel them all, each with its acute punch creating a heady mixture.

“Too soon?” His gaze is steady, unlike my ever-shifting eyes. I’m scared that if I look at any part of him for too long, I might get lost in the details, but I can’t quite stop looking. Staring.

I need to close my mouth. “And just what ways did you imagine?” I should ask in a husky voice, lowering my eyelids as I fix my gaze on his mouth. Maybe I could even lick my lips, suggestively. But I know I’d look like an idiot, a starving lunatic, and I’m not sure I want to scare him away. “I wasn’t expecting that just yet, but maybe we can revisit the idea another time” would be the most sensible thing to say.

“I won’t apologise.” And he doesn’t. In fact, his whole demeanour screams of confidence and knowledge of what it is that he’s doing to me exactly.

I am leaning, I’ve just noticed. My upper body shifted, millimetre by millimetre, as I soaked in every word he uttered, every image he conjured in my mind. I can feel my chest rising and falling with an ancient rhythm, a sharp rise followed by a slower, deeper fall.

Come on, girl, get it together. You are practically panting, and he hasn’t even so much as brushed his knee against yours.

“I’m sorry.”

Idiot! Why am I apologising? I didn’t do anything. It was he who put my fantasies into words in the middle of a bar as if he knew them by heart. Maybe they are written all over my face. Maybe my leaning and heaving chest has already betrayed them.

The vodka burns my throat as I take too big a gulp in an attempt to occupy my mouth before I say anything more stupid. But his eyes lower and fix on my lips as I bite down on my straw, and I’m worried I might swallow the wrong way.

I must not fidget. I must not pick up the coaster and tear at the wet paper. I must not scratch at my chipped nail polish. I am a grow up woman, I can play this game. I must.

“There’s enough to fill both of my hands.”

He picked up a strand of my hair from my shoulder without touching my skin in any way, but his eyes lowered further down, assessing everything but my hair.

And I clenched.

There is indeed more than enough to fill both of his hands, regardless of where he’d like to put them.

Imagines from the past try to intrude on me, the way someone brushed my hair away, annoyed that it was all over the place, and told me to put it in a bun so it wouldn’t fall over him. I was proud of my hair, and that dismissal was felt deeper than it was maybe intended.

And now, it’s the opposite – the image of my hair wrapped around his fingers does things to my body that I haven’t felt in a long time. Is it surprising that I’m practically vibrating with barely controlled need?

“There is” I whisper, but even in the loud bar he hears me. It’s as much an admittance as an invitation, but still my heart quickens as he signals for the barmaid to bring us the bill. His eyes only leave my body while he glances at the bill and takes some notes out of his wallet. I can’t help but hope that he’s as generous in all areas of life as he is with the tip, and little trembles move around my belly.

He slides out of the booth and waits for me to gather my bag and jacket, indicating for me to go first. Images of all the others who have walked before me like I was less than an afterthought bombard me, and I have to focus on each step as I leave the overly ripe atmosphere of the bar. He is right behind me, his body heat so obvious in the chilly night, but still, he hasn’t touched me.

He must know the anticipation is killing me.

A taxi pulls up in front of us after his signal, and he opens the back door for me. As I sit in I wonder if I should slide over to the other side, but he closes the door and walks over to the other side before I can decide. I am caught half-way across the seat, but as I try to scoot back to my side of the car he puts his hand on my knee.

I freeze mid-movement while my body heats up with a fever. Without a word he commands me to stay put, and I strain to put the belt on without moving my leg from his hold.

Was it a good idea to wear a dress? It’s not like I like to show off my legs, but I wanted to go for something feminine. And I also thought that if he can’t handle me in a dress which hides less flaws than it highlights, then I shouldn’t bother with hiding my flaws that much anyway.

It seems that I might just have been proven wrong.

His fingers spread out and cup my knee. I can’t help but imagine all the things a hand that big and fingers that long could do to me. Could, will?

I should try not to over think it. I don’t even know where we are going. Presumably to his place? There are little alarm bells chiming somewhere in the recesses of my mind, but the humming of the blood in my ears mutes them out.

I want this. It will be all right.

 

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