The conversation is really nothing more than a pleasant buzzing noise sustained by certain proper responses that require no more thought than breathing. Inane questions and answers filled with things I don't know and people I've never done. And I am so bored I don't even bother to get those two straight. Thankfully idle hands are the devil's playthings.
Next to me she nearly jumps. She hadn't noticed my hand disappearing from the table, no one hand. Bright blue eyes flash at me before returning to her friends across the table. Really all that is required to register her surprise at my fingers innocently resting on her knee. Or not so innocently tracing the joint's outline through her jeans. I toss out another inane joke as my nails trace over the top of her thigh. Falling to the side, my fingers pressing into her, my knuckles pushing her legs ever so slightly apart. Her laugh covers another more serious look. I lean in to off a quick kiss on the cheek that covers a quick question my assured tone reveals we both know the answer
A quick scooch allows me better access as I explore her thigh. My fingers questing for little mole I know is there, the pressure just hard enough. Color leaks into her cheeks as the conversation drones on. Pearly teeth flash for just a moment as she bites her lip, my search running out of thigh. I search for definition amidst seams and stitching. Powerful, confident strokes reddening her face showing some effect. My strokes rub a well remembered outline as her friend gets lost in some story I don't hear. I don't the owner of those needy blue eyes did either. The two of us share a new secret, one born in shadows right before searching eyes. The sheer brashness of it sparking something in her.
She opens her mouth to suggest we leave. I preempt her with a question. The conversation continues. My fingers start to dance, insisting on every bit of her attention. Feeling the heat through the jeans, desperately holding her hips in place, eyes sparking with mirth. I go on. Never letting up my attention or allowing us leave. Pushing her closer and closer to the edge, watching her concentration slip as pleasure threatens to take her.
Finally with a yawn I get up and stretch, announcing it is time to call it a night. Never has she been more eager to leave her friends. Practically dragging me to the car we head out. One final wave as we move down the driveway and her hands fly down to push away her jeans. I barely have time to park before her leg is over me. In one movement she impales herself, screaming in pent up release, fingers digging into my shoulders.
Collapsing against me in a quivering mass she whispers, "You're a real son of bitch..."
"Yeah." I pant happily, "But next time you won't make me stay for coffee."
