The cocktails are good. Glancing across the table at her is better. She’s wearing a tailored shirt in pine needle green and her hair is loose around her face and whenever, like now, she’s trying to remember a detail of an anecdote her mouth puckers up a little to one side, like a thread’s tugging up her cheek.
Two cocktails down, so far, strong ones cause you’d flirted with the bartender. You’re meeting her boyfriend a few blocks over, soon — he’s coming from work and you have a hotel room and god, you’ve been waiting for this for weeks. Months.
‘Should we take off?’ You put your glass down, tip it from side to side. The ring of condensation at its base smears across the table. ‘Bit early but we can, you know, wander a little. You can show me the neighbourhood.’
She laughs, in that throaty delighted way. Not a belly laugh exactly, though with the same abandon: more like it’s coming in bubbles from her spine, running easy up her throat.
‘Not much to see but — ok?’
It’s warm out, last heat of the summer still held in the pavement. Half a block down from the bar there’s an alley on your right — a couple of big recycling bins and behind them a disordered junction of three walls that creates a patch of almost full shadow, though on the street outside it’s still barely dusk. Some discarded pallets are propped up against the bins.
‘Hey,’ you say, giddy-reckless, ‘come here a minute,’ and she follows you back behind the bins and you look at her and grin and say ‘yeah? ok?’ and the smile’s still blossoming on her face when you step up and kiss her, swallow the noise of her delight.
‘Can — please, can I,’ you say, words tripping over each other, tumbling marbles, and she makes a noise and you get on your knees so fast it hurts, the impact of it and the gravel digging into your skin. You like it, to be honest, the urgency and the discomfort of it. The rush of it. She’s wearing a knee-length skirt, loose and flyaway, and you wriggle your way underneath it and put your hands on her legs just above her knees, drag your palms up till your thumbs find the hair in the crease of her thighs. She’s not wearing panties.
‘Fuuuck,’ you say, and get close enough that you can breath close against her. Your thumbs run up a little further, play with the edges of her labia, and you can feel the little tremble in her legs where they’re pressed against your sides, the sharp suck-in of her breath.
‘Ohhh,’ she says, breathy, before you’ve even licked her. When you do, sucking soft and messy up her folds, using your lips as much as your tongue, she says it again, more guttural, this time, like a hurt, like an ache. It makes you drunker than the booze did. ‘Oh—ooh.’
‘Shut up,’ you say, against her clit, and you put two fingers up inside her cunt, just to the second knuckle, but instead of tugging towards yourself you press your knuckles back a little, against her perineum, and hold them there, gentle pressure, while you keep sucking slick and soft against her clit. For a few minutes the world narrows down to just her: the smell of her and her little muffled cries and the grounding warmth of her skin. Then her knees start to tremble and you nuzzle in further, hold your breath, there’s a warm wet between your own legs and then she’s coming, making quiet cut-off moans around her own fist, falling back against the brick wall behind her.
You extract yourself from under her skirt and stay kneeling on the ground, grinning, wiping your mouth. She sinks down too, leans back against the walls, and for a minute you both just sit there, sprawled out in easy disarray. Then you put your fingers up to your mouth, lick the taste of her.
‘The perfect hors d’oeuvres before supper,’ you say, ‘it’s like a palate cleanser between courses.’
‘You fucking nerd,’ she says, and laughs again, and you go together out of the alley.
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