Decadent Chocolate

"Let's get out of here."

It was a command, quietly spoken, but done so with urgency and finality. It was accompanied by a quick but not-so-subtle brush of his knuckles against her left breast, before his large, warm palm closed over her arm.

A slight shudder raced through her, further weakening both her legs and her resolve.

He looked at her with an unapologetic stare, irises deep and dark. Absolutely no trace of a smile – instead, an intense, almost hungry cast hung over his face. His breathing was uneven, bordering on harsh; the muscles on his jaw were rigid. He looked as if he wanted to shove away the obstructive cocktail table between them and dig himself deep into her body to the beat of the throbbing music in the dark bar. Primal was his need.

It matched the burning feeling unraveling in her.

Her heart hammered uncontrollably in her chest, betraying the cool, composed exterior she fought to maintain, as his thumb started to stroke the soft, exposed flesh of her inner arm. Even if the rest of him looked diabolical, his touch was deft yet gentle, coaxing yet unaggressive.

He then brought his lips nearer to where his hand lay. She felt his warm breath lightly skim her skin, sending more delicious thrills up her spine then down straight to the insides of her thighs. A hot blush colored her neck and cheeks. It took all her willpower not to close her eyes, throw her head back and moan.

There was nothing subtle about this man – not his half-lidded but unfaltering stare; the confident, very masculine gait in that dark, expensive suit; his surprisingly intimate kiss on her cheek at the start of the evening, with his lips nuzzling her jaw; the way he casually adjusted the erection underneath his pants as he watched her bare legs deliberately part, hiking the rather conservative pencil skirt up her thighs. He reminded her of decadent dark chocolate – sticky, sweet, tempting to the point of being immoral. Delicious, that you had to suck every chocolaty smudge off your fingers. Sinful. Definitely habit-forming. As everything about him was – that low, velvety voice; the dark, unflawed skin emerging under that starched, immaculately white dress shirt; the angular features that couldn't be universally called handsome, but spoke of a violent temper and an even more dangerous sexual appetite.

She wondered why the preliminaries stretched over an hour. Hadn't they agreed to make this swift? If either one of them wanted out, a San Miguel Pale Pilsen beer – the most popular brand in the metro, probably the cheapest drink from the selection and available even in street corner stores in the sleaziest parts of town – would be ordered. And even without it being served, he would leave a few bills on the table and they would part ways, no other words spoken and forever out of each other's lives.

But after that lingering, suggestive kiss he left on her cheek, he slid into the seat across her and summoned the waiter with an almost arrogant flick of his fingers. He ordered a Johnny Walker into the waiting man's ear, loud enough for her to hear over the din of music, enunciating each word slowly, so that it was quite impossible for her not to catch his meaning. He introduced his seductive smile to her as he waited for her to relay her order to the same waiter.

A White Russian, her favorite drink. Sweet, smooth, coffee-chocolaty. He nodded ever so slightly, as if he read the words from her lips and just knew she was galaxies away from ordering that damning beer.

The small talk she expected did not come, much to her surprise. They spoke like old lovers did, discussing the events of the day and catching up on the latest gossip on their mutual acquaintances, but never revealing too much, never delving too deep. They did not talk like the man and the woman that turned a seemingly innocent blind date, set up by well-meaning friends, into a night promising casual, uninvolving sex.

His smile grew wider when their drinks finally arrived. "We both know what this means."

She playfully returned his smile, even as breathing suddenly became more difficult. "What does it mean?"

She figured he had vast experience in handling second thoughts, playing hard to get, innocent Lolita and all the dim-witted attempts of females to downplay what they really wanted. And she was right – the smile that played on his lips never wavered, his eyes never unlocked with hers. He suddenly leaned forward, engulfed the exposed knee of her crossed legs with his palm and let his hand slowly creep up her thigh.

She automatically jerked forward with a gasp, trying to wrench his hand off her skin, embarrassed that someone might see. Their faces were now mere inches away from the other. But his hold on her, although gentle, was firm and persistent. "It means," he murmured softly in her ear, as his fingers roamed under her tight skirt, "that you're coming home with me tonight."

She was practically panting when he released her. She could not decide if she was relieved or disappointed that the cocktail table hindered him from reaching the moistness that had formed in the apex of her thighs. She quickly smoothed down her skirt and leaned back on her seat.

"Let me finish my drink." She raised her glass to her lips to take a slow sip, relieved her attempt at nonchalance had worked.

It was at this point that she grew bolder and resolved to get back at him. As he continued to talk about his long, tiring day at court with one of his more important clients, she slid lower on her chair and opened her legs ever so slightly. She allowed her skirt to gather up and expose the skin his fingers had earlier touched. She knew, from the way his eyes darted quickly from her face to her lower regions, that she already had his full attention. She leisurely undid the clasp of her hair clip, placed it on the table and shook her head to let her long, dark curls cascade down her shoulders. She then crossed her arms across her chest, but let her right thumb slowly caress the swell of her left breast. Her lids lowered and her mouth slightly parted. "I'm horny," she mouthed.

His jaw dropped a fraction of a notch but he quickly regained his composure. He crafted another slow grin, amused and very much interested, and returned her stare squarely. Then his right hand snaked down between his legs, almost lazily, to fix the bump that had formed at the front of his pants. He grabbed his erection and shifted it to find a more comfortable position, ever so casually, as if he were in the confines of his bedroom instead of the small, cramped bar.

But he didn't let her win so easily. "I need another drink," he announced, lifting the fingers of his free hand to signal for the waiter.

So did she.

In fact, she downed two more rounds of that sweet vodka-laced drink before he growled out that command.

Let's get out of here? I thought you'd never ask.

She brought her right pointer finger to lightly trace those lips that blew hot, delicious breaths on her skin. When his eyes fluttered close at her touch, she felt a rush of warmth spread through her body at her power to invoke such a raw, blatantly aroused reaction from him.

"Let us," she consented, breaking from their brief contact and rising from her seat.

She felt him wrap a strong arm around her waist possessively and together, they walked out into the cool darkness.