During the elevator ride downstairs, I noticed Tom’s outfit in the mirror. I noticed his hair, in need of a cut itself, just combed back. It worked wonderfully. There was an outline of a bulge, I think, in his pressed slacks. My husband hailed a cab, but the cabbie didn’t let anyone sit in the front for an arbitrary reason we didn’t understand. So, I somehow ended up between the two men: my husband and one of his closest friends. As the ride went along, I relaxed, leaning more into Tom when the cabbie made abrupt movements with his steering wheel or took turns a little too tightly. Tom pointed out a place that used to have orgies. I didn’t think anything of it, but remarked something to the effect of, “Good to know where to plan my next girls night out,” but not really getting a laugh.
I realized it was because my husband was distracted by watching the map that Tom had been able to stare right down my top while the drive went on. I placed my foot next to his and now my entire calf gently rested against his. I loved the smooth fabric of his pants. The streets were dark, but I thought I saw him adjust himself. Was the exchange of body heat affecting him as it was myself? I knew I wasn’t his type, but I also knew it had been a long time since he had felt that tightness of a woman’s body, most likely. The perfume that I had chosen to adorn my skin with hung ever so slightly in the air, if you were in my personal space, which both men were. I noticed him breathing deeply, eyes closed, gradually speaking less and less.
As soon I started to settle into Tom, we were at the club. We got out and I led them to the table line, where we quickly were led to our balcony table above the DJ. Servers in sexy costumes helped us get settled in and we got acquainted with the list of bottles. Mostly champagne, plus some vodka. Though the servers were dressed like Hooter’s girls, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him watching me, focused on my breasts, while the rest of us discussed prices. Flattering, I have to admit. The champagne bottle was popped, then another. My husband’s best friend used his jacket to clean up a mess I made, even. His hand brushed mine in the process and I apologetically grabbed his bicep.
“Fuck, Tom, I’m so sorry! I guess I’m a little sloppy,” I laughed.
“Don’t even worry about it — it’s a cheap jacket anyway. I wouldn’t want you to get wet — I mean get your phone wet, too, you know?” he reassured me.
Tom smiled at me knowingly. My husband was away, watching the DJ over the second story rail. He wanted to wander the main floor, too. I didn’t want to be alone with Tom. I didn’t want to be tempted because I didn’t know if I could resist. He might not strike you as one, but apparently, he is a gym fanatic. I’ve simply never seen him out of business clothes to say if this is true. His arm felt hard and muscular in my hand, so I could only imagine what his own chest looked like. I chugged the rest of my drink and smiled at Tom, with liquid courage filling my own veins. He smiled back.