Sinful desires{steamiest short stories}

“You love calamari,” she said as I turned back to her.

“Yes,” I agreed, a little startled. She laughed and swigged more of her beer.

“I’m sorry, I should have just let you say it, shouldn’t I? Any time calamari comes up in a conversation, you mention that you love it. I was just saving you the effort.”

I shook my head, wincing, and reaching for my drink, said, “Old friends I’ve never met can really mess up my vibe.”

“Awww, Muffin, does your pussy hurt?”

Martini’s are about as comfortable up the nose as anybody might expect. She was still laughing over a half emptied beer by the time I’d stopped spluttering enough to wipe the tears from my eyes.

“I can’t believe you said that,” I sniffled.

“Sorry,” she laughed. “I knew a guy who used to say that. To his brother! It always amuses me.”

“Ah well, serve me right,” I said, and then returned immediately. “Well, the drinks aren’t hardly fresh, but a moment like this demands a toast.”

“It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it,” she mused, considering her bottle.

“Well, m’dear, to unseen friends, and unknown lovers,” I said and extended my glass. She clinked her bottle against it, and we both drank.

“Unknown lovers?” she repeated with a raised eyebrow, as I retrieved the olive from the now empty glass.

“Sure… the ones you don’t know yet are the most mysterious,” I said, while I signaled to the waiter.

“Interesting toast,” she said without emotion, draining the last of her beer. The waiter arrived, and set our food on the table.

“Thank you,” I answered to her, a little puzzled, but I just nodded at the nearly empty bottle. “That went fast. Another one?”

“No,” she replied. “Get me a scotch.”NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

“A scotch?” I confirmed, expecting her to change her mind. The waiter had a pen out, waiting.

“You’ve been going on about scotches for the last however many years. You and I are going to have a scotch.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “How do you want yours?”

“I don’t know. You order for both of us,” she said. “It’s not like I’m much of a fan, but it’s something I’ve wanted to do with you.”

She watched me as I listened to the waiter’s list of scotches. I gave him a few names for the good stuff.

“Oban for both of us. Rocks for her, and another neat, but poured over ice for me,” I told him. He started off, but she stopped him.

“Wait. I want the same as him,” she told him. “Make them both neat.”

She looked at me, challenged in her eyes. I let the waiter go without stopping him again.

“The ice would have made it a little easier on you,” I said.

She made a face, and replied, “I didn’t want it easier. I wanted to have what you were having.”

“Okay,” I said.

“It’s just something I’ve imagined,” she explained again. “Okay,” I repeated.

She looked at me, and then turned her attention to the calamari. I watched her chewing, over a slice of the bruschetta. She was squeezing lemon juice over the plate. We ate quietly, occasionally glancing at each other until our waiter dropped off the drinks.

I slid in closer to her as she picked up her drink. We were shoulder-to- shoulder, and thigh-to-thigh.

The inaudible music emerged from the background noise with a fountain of piano and trumpets before disappearing again into the haze of people and plates.

She said: “I used to imagine sitting with you, like this.”

Holding the heavy glass, I put my arm around her, and hugged her against me, careful not to jar her drink.

“You toast,” I whispered.

She thought for a while and then raised her glass between us, and whispered in turn, “To old friends and the future.”

I clinked my glass against hers and took a gentle sip with my eyes closed, savoring that first burst of flavor and texture and sensation. The reverie was interrupted, though, as she shuddered against me, and started to cough.

“You okay?” I asked her, amused.

“Okay,” she whispered hoarsely. “Forgot how strong this stuff is.” “I did order you ice.”

“Oh, bite me.”

“Pick out something interesting, and maybe I just might,” I told her. She laughed, made shooing gestures with her free hand, and cautiously took another sip of the drink.

“Warm,” she said. I tightened the arm around her in a hug against my side, and patted her shoulder.

“It’s good stuff,” I assured her as she munched on more of the bruschetta. “Nice and strong, to put some hair on your chest!”

Her retort was unintelligible, and I laughed as she put down the pieces and reached for water to clear her mouth.

“I said, I don’t *need* hair on my chest,” she repeated.

“Why not? It’ll make a man out of you!”

And then I was hardening against the hand between my legs, as warm lips pressed against my neck. Shivers spread like ripples through my body, and the breath I’d taken in surprise was trapped by my paralysis. And then, as fast as she’d turned, she returned to the bruschetta she had set down.

“I’m much more fun as a girl,” she said mildly. “Don’t you think?”