You stood at the front door walkway, head down and eyes peering up alluringly. I came in close, we kissed, and you pulled me in tight.
Earlier in the evening we had been out dancing, moving and shuffling and grinding together on that floor in rhythm to loud beats blasting from the DJ’s speakers. But now we danced again, our lips gently touching and parting and tongues flicking in and around, tentatively exploring.
It was our seventh date across four weeks. I took it slow, applied no pressure. On our first date, after a fine evening out, as we strolled to your apartment I reached out and simply took your hand. You glanced down and tossed your hair, then clasped fingers back and smiled. We reached your front door and I didn’t even try to kiss. I simply faced you, held both hands, looked deeply in your eyes, and asked for another date.
Of course you’d said yes.
But now you are persistent. Your lips needy. Your groin pressed against mine as I stroke your back along the satin of your evening gown.
“Come in,” you say in a husky voice.