Sunday, March 24, 2013

Pit Stop


Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: edgy, iconic, lithe.

* * *

Sam wants to keep going, put a few more miles behind him, but guilt has won the battle.

Stupid Catholic upbringing.

His friends had told him about this place. It’s iconic, they’d said, you have to stop and stay a night, have a pint for us.

Shit.

After checking in, leaving his bags in his room, Sam finds the pub on the main floor. This better be worth it, he thinks, as he settles at the bar.

“What can I get you?”

He’s pulled into smokey eyes and pouty lips painted a luscious Fuck-Me red. His gaze dips down to the low vee of a black halter, then back up. His brain sizzles and he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“It’s my birthday.”

The bartender smiles, tucks wavy auburn hair behind her ear. “Well, then it’s on the house. What’s your pleasure?”

Oh, he can think of several things right now. None of them are on tap.

“Guinness.”

She winks her approval, walks to the end of the bar to build his pint, hips swaying in invitation. He grins his appreciation, swivels to watch the band rocking it on stage. Bass pumps out of the speakers, edgy and raw, as bodies bump and grind against each other on the dance floor.

Red pushes a pint into his hand, brushes her fingers against his, flashes him an I-will-if-you-will smile before sashaying away.

Okay. Maybe this will be worth it.

He nurses his beer while she tends the bar. They flirt, each innuendo more implicit than the last, until they’re no longer exchanging suggestions but rather detailed descriptions of what each will do to the other.

“I have a room upstairs,” says Sam. “What time does your shift end?”

She calls over to one of the servers, unties her apron. “Hey, Andrea, cover for me.” She turns to him, flicks her head. “I’m on break.”

Sam fumbles with the key to his room, pushes the door open, kicks it shut behind him. Hungry, eager, they tear at each other’s clothes, claw and bite. Each mutters promises neither understand as they fall onto the bed.

His hands and mouth roam, search, tease, until her long, lithe body bucks beneath his while she chants his name and he pours into her.

Sam shifts so that she’s splayed on top of him.

“Sam,” she whispers. “I have to go.”

He groans, runs a calloused hand across her back. “Stay.”

She presses a kiss against his throat before rolling off. “I can’t.”

Naked, she walks around the room, gathering her clothes. After running a brush through her hair, she dresses, then leans over and presses a kiss on his mouth, leans in when he pushes his tongue between her lips. His hand slides under her skirt, cups her ass.

“Sam,” she groans against him. “I really have to go.”

She smooths her skirt, adjusts her halter, walks across the room and opens the door.

“Wait.”

She turns.

“You didn’t give me your name.”

She smiles. “Happy Birthday, Sam,” she says, as she closes the door.

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