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You trace your finger along the stem of your wine glass, nodding in feigned response to the person you’re in conversation with. Or, rather, the person in front of you who’s in conversation with himself.

Actors. So fucking self-involved.

Well, maybe not all actors.

You glance across through the kitchen door, past the mingling party-goers. It’s almost ten o’clock; the early May skies are already dark. The windows reveal only pitch blackness beyond them. Inside, however, the house is warm, comfortable, and filled with the voices of people relaxing and enjoying themselves.

You look at him.

He’s reclined casually in an easy chair, chatting happily with one of his friends. His left hand holds a tumbler – scotch and water, what he always drinks at parties. You smile at the thought of someone so spontaneous having such a consistent habit.

He raises the glass to his lips, and you watch as he tips the glass back, his tongue meeting the liquid.

He laughs, his mouth breaking into a wide grin, and the corners of his eyes squeezing into little crinkles. You love how his eyes crinkle.

You realize that your conversational partner has been talking for a few minutes now without you hearing a single word he’s saying.

"Excuse me." You say. "I have to make… a phone call."

You walk across the room, your eyes on your target. You approach his chair from behind. His friend is engaged with someone else now, so he’s idly tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. You place a hand on his shoulder and slide it down across his chest. You lean in and put your head next to his.

He looks at you and smiles. "Hey, where’ve you been? I…"

You don’t let him finish. You instead place your lips against his ear, lowering your voice to a level just below a whisper and just above a growl.

"Three minutes from now, I want you to get up, and go out the kitchen door."

You reach your hand down his chest, his stomach. Once you reach his belt buckle, you slide your hand along his belt to his pocket, where you reach in and remove his keys.

"I want you to go to your car, where I’ll be waiting for you."

You draw your hand back up his chest and up to his neck. The keys still clutched in your palm, you lightly trail your finger along his skin. It’s then that you notice his breathing begin to stagger.

"Then," You say, unable to keep from licking your lips as you say it, "I want you to go down on me. And then you’re going to fuck me."

You pause.

"Got it?" you conclude, playfully, nipping his earlobe with your teeth, then pulling your lips away from his ear. He swallows audibly.

He nods. "Yeah."

You’re outside, leaning against the backseat door of the car. You survey the residential street. It’s quiet; the houses are generously spaced, and the canopy of elm trees above makes it feel almost private. You pick a cigarette out of your case, flick your lighter, and pull in a drag, exhaling heavily.

You wait.

But not for long – you soon see him turn the corner around a hedge and spot you. He makes a beeline, no longer trying to hide his anticipation. He nearly runs until he’s right up against you, practically pinning you to the car. Before he can kiss you, you put the cigarette to your lips. You exhale out the side of your mouth, then turn the filter end toward him, holding the cigarette to his lips. He obliges and takes a drag. Before he can exhale, you kiss him. You pull away, softly exhaling, watching the already thin smoke fade away completely. You look into his eyes. They mirror the intensity of his desire, desire you already know he feels – his hands grip the back of your waist posessively, and his pelvis is pressed to yours just as urgently. You smile. You toss the cigarette to the ground, where it fizzles out in a puddle.

"Shall we?" you say, reaching behind yourself to grasp the door handle. You climb into the back seat, and he follows, shutting the door behind him.

You barely settle in to the corner of the seat when his mouth is on yours, heavy and urgent. One arm bracing himself against the seat, his free hand runs up your leg to your knee, where it stops. He breaks the kiss, and looks intently at you, while his hand pushes the fabric of your skirt up your thigh. He smiles as he realizes you’re not wearing underwear. He kisses your neck, your chest just above the neckline of your shirt, then makes his way down. He rubs his cheek softly against your inner thigh, as a small gasp escapes from your lips. You grip the back of the seat as his tongue’s ministrations send your concentration (and blood supply) south. Your head falls back as your hand finds the back of his head, fingers involuntarily grasping. You can’t stifle the cry as you come, your back arching, your body thrusting toward him in a primal spasm.

You try to gain control of your breathing, but the effort is futile. You have no choice in the matter soon, however, as his mouth meets yours again, your tongue forcing hotly against his. He fumbles with his belt buckle, and within short order his pants are down; swiftly, he’s inside you, an arm wrapped around your waist. Your leg wraps around him, pulling him closer to you. You kiss his neck, his jawline, his mouth as he moves. You kiss him, and his teeth brush your bottom lip, nearly biting as he comes, shuddering into you.

You’re both still for a moment; he kisses you as he pulls away, bringing a hand to your face, stroking your cheek, a thumb grazing across your reddened lips.

He leans back to pull up his pants, and you sit up, pulling down your skirt. He opens the door of the car, and steps out. He holds out his hand for you, as you try to exit the car in a fashion as modest or proper as possible, given the fact that you’re wearing a skirt. You giggle to yourself, realizing that you’re not modest or proper (at least when it comes to this car,) at all. You shut the door, but before you can walk anywhere, he pulls you to him. He smiles, his eyes crinkling, catching the moonlight in a gleam.

He places his lips against your ear.

"Now, I want you to…"

(end)