"8 o'clock sharp," complained J under his breath, glancing at the sloppy drunk two stools away from me at the bar.
Thursday had moved to Friday for the week, being that I was out of town for a few days. I had flown back to town in the late afternoon, and was tired from traveling, so I took a nap before getting dressed for the walk to the bar. It was a slow walk with me wearing high heeled boots and the sidewalks covered with fresh, slippery wet snow, and I didn't get there until about 20 after. Which was about two and a half seconds after another bar regular had managed to stumble out of her cab and into the bar, already a drunken mess. She then proceeded to engage us both in pointless meandering conversation, though she was too drunk to notice our exasperated looks at one another.
We did manage to sneak away later on (twice, once for a greedy blow job and again for a good pounding bent over the sink), but easily the hottest moment of my night was "8 o'clock sharp"; spoken not as a command or an admonishment, but in a tone of near desperation, and picturing J thinking of me while glancing at the clock repeatedly (perhaps actually worried that I wouldn't show up?) while trying not to chop up his fingers along with the lemons.
How sexy it feels to be desired like that.
