I eyed him from the bar, doing the mental calculations of how many drinks it’d take me to gain the Dutch courage to approach him. He seemed broody, maybe even a little moody. And that made me think maybe he was a little on edge.
I sat there, one cocktail in, preferring to have a cock inside instead.
But I’d never been very forward, not in public at least. Sitting there, all by myself, made me feel a little more vulnerable. My dress felt too short, my panties were digging into me, my heels were drawing too much attention.
And yet, he sat there as though he’d not noticed me despite making eye contact when I went to order a second drink. I went back to my table to continue trying to will him to approach me, but he didn’t. He sat there, back turned to me, nursing his drink.
After downing my drink, the alcohol was beginning to break down my inhibitions. I started wondering how his suit jacket would crinkle with my hands digging into his back. He seemed like the type who’d just fuck me with his clothes on, the urgency overcoming him.