His fingers drifted slowly across my back. They started at the shoulder blade before sliding down and across to trail off at my spine. Maybe it was an innocent touch. Perhaps a passing gesture of casual friendship, but if that was his intent, my body failed to understand.
Despite the softness of the contact, the tips of his fingers burned through the fabric of my dress, leaving a blazing trail across my skin. Rational thought stalled, the room went silent, I ceased to breathe and time faltered. Every nerve ending in my skin exploded into life.
The flush spread from my chest and neck to erupt on my cheeks. The hairs on my arms stood on end, reaching for him. A wave of warmth surged through my cunt, releasing liquid desire. The ache of need arched my back.
An infinity later the impulses of instinct calmed. Sense returned. In a trick of time the wine was still settling into my glass, droplets of condensation yet to form.
The wine waiter was gone — the wine and scorched skin of my back the only evidence that I had been served.
Copyright 2015, Jacqui Greaves. All rights reserved.
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