It was a good party. The guests were happy. Alcohol was flowing; people were laughing louder, leaning closer, letting slip the kinds of words they’d normally think twice about. The Girl was rosy-cheeked, gesturing with a wine glass as she chuckled her way through a story; Lawson, nursing his own wine glass, formed her perfectly attentive audience of one. His wife had sat beside him for a while, turning that intimately rapt attention on the Girl as well – but for now, she was in the kitchen. Fussing with the entrees. Fussing with her *makeup*. Shedding (just so the cuffs didn’t trail through anything, of course) her long-sleeved camisole.
The Girl had dressed casually, suiting the dress code they’d told her to expect: slacks and a black spaghetti-strap tank top, tight on her luscious body, neckline showing a generous peek of cleavage that Lawson’s eyes had flicked over quite a few times as the wine and chatter flowed. Her glass ran low again and she leaned forward, asking for a top-up; he obliged her graciously, of course, the good host that he was. And he let his gaze linger on those pert, full breasts, and smiled.