“God, I want you,” I whisper through clenched teeth. He smirks, shakes his head, and continues his assault. He knows how public this is, how many people could be watching our display. He’s enjoying just how trapped I feel, of being forced to show decorum. A waitress is moving between people, her tray of champagne flutes poised on one arm. His fingers continue their relentless movement, driving me steadily towards the point of no return.
All I want to do is wrap my arms around his neck, as he brings me closer and closer to the edge. I want to feel his naked body against mine, taste the salty sweat on his body. I want to feel him swell inside me as the crescendo builds within us both. I want to smell the desperation in him, taste the pleasure in the electrified air. I try to concentrate on an intelligent facial expression, but I fail, and the wine glass in my hand barely avoids spilling its contents all over the floor.
His eyes widen with excitement as he correctly guesses just how close I am.
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