The First Time (Love in No Time #1) (11 page)

He caught hold of my finger and said, “Missy, if you were out on a date with me, I would have hired a butler, a chef, and a sommelier to satisfy each one of your obnoxious demands. But since you like losers, this is the best I will do for you. He is such a novice and I am such a pro. Trust me—before the night is over you will know for sure and I will be waiting for you with open arms.” He spreads is arms wide to mark his verbal point but hits the root of the car and the grey goose splashes onto his passenger seat, enough to make him jump a little and in the process splash himself more with the vodka. He immediately begins to giggle and continues giggling till I slap his hand to stun him into silence. He does before quickly downing his vodka. He then adjusts his blazer before swinging out of the car to open my side of the door. He extends his hand and as I lean on it to get out of the car, he circles my waist with his other hand pulling me to his side. He grins at my semi-quizzical expression before bending down to kiss my forehead and before taking my arm to lead me to the elevators, knowing fully well that my man would follow to immediately disengage us in order to claim my arm for himself. Wady knows how to push his buttons in a good way. He likes me and I him. So this was going to be good for all of us. I like having his friends near me, to like me, to hold my hand, to side with me, to make me feel good about us moving forward.

Good friends mattered because that meant I was with a good man.

Oh! An astonished sigh escapes me as I see his pleasureland. A 70s style giant crystal ball hung from the low-mirrored ceiling. The rotating light globes on the four walls threw multi-colored light onto the crystal ball which in turn threw these back in diamond shapes on the dance floor and along the walls. I could make out some dark shapes along the walls almost fusing into one another—heads and mouths pasted together. I didn’t want to look and I am sure they didn’t want me to look either. This was their alone time, incognito catching up on all manner of lost smooch time. The two men lead us to a sofa in the middle of the ballroom, if it could be called that. Rather a small closet like space dressed up like a discotheque.

Wady pats his lap, daring me to sit on it. His evil smile directed at his friend, who in turn stands beside me with the deepest scowl on his face. I am between a rock and a hard place. Ahem! Yes, hard is the operative word. I lightly slap Wady on his wrist, jerking my hip in an outward motion, kind of coquettishly asking him to shift to his left so I can squeeze into this space. He continues to smile evilly as he shifts a leg but his body remains in its original space! Before I can strategize again—for this was space war that was unnecessary—my arm is taken and I am gently but purposefully jerked backwards and sideways at the same time. My man sidesteps and then sits down next to Wady and then pushes him to the side as if Wady was kind of weightless like a small throwaway cushion. As he did so, he smiles evilly too.

I sigh loudly as I stand privy to this cock-war that is harmless but definitely amusing. I shake my head in reprimand as two pairs of eyes look back at me as if asking for a report-card on masculine behavior vis-à-vis a single, pretty girl (yes, I am talking about me!). Wady continues to grin stupidly but my man’s eyes change. They become darker and hooded, enough to send a shiver down my sweat-beaded spine. He reaches for me without breaking eye contact, pulling at my hand with enough force to land me in his lap. As I adjust my bum on his now clenched thigh muscle, his arm comes around my waist to hold me motionless as I feel his lips stick themselves to my slightly sweaty blouse. My back arches immediately. I can feel him smile as his lips stay stuck to my back. I wiggle a little to break contact and the sensations that have now travelled to my core enough to jerk some fluid between my legs. Oh, dear, this man was doing everything wrong in the feel-right way and I was fighting every prim-virginal upbringing in me to accept what he was promising to do more if I was game.

“What would you like to drink?” I look at him sideways and his lips brush my cheeks. Another rush of fluid between my legs. Shit—at this rate I will be weeping soon and would need a bathroom break!

“What do you suggest, I drink?” I throw back at him, twisting a little on his lap to look at his face. Our lips were now almost touching, as breaths began to leave our bodies in short gushes.

“I think you should continue with rum and coke. I wouldn’t want you to mix your drinks.”

“Ok.” I breathe.

His eyes scan my face before he turns to Wady to say, “Can you make yourself useful and get us drinks?”

“No. I can get her a drink but you are on your own, my friend.”

“You are such a dick,” he counters with enough good-natured sarcasm he could muster before sliding me off his lap to get the drinks himself. He brushes my hair away from my temple to kiss it again. I look away. So he wouldn’t catch the arrest in my breathing and my glazing eyes. Wow! Every single, small intimate gesture was being magnified in the dark. The dark was now feeling more like a private bedroom than a public space for entertainment.

The place was filling up. There were a few people on the dance floor too. The music was still slow and ballad like. Everyone was really dressed for the night out. Men in their crisp cologne soaked shirts of all manner of color shades—brown, black, blue, mauve, pale pink even and the women were something else. Tight
cholis
accentuated generous breasts above a trim waist. Jeans or short skirts completed the sexed out ensemble. Everyone wore their hair loose. Faces were either heavily made up right down to smoky kohl eyes and bright red lips or just natural (a lip gloss completed the affect).

I spot a rather stunning couple (you know they have a great sex life just in the way they hold or snuggle into each other, in this vertical expression of a horizontal desire) take the floor. The man is very brown almost as if he had worked very hard to get that tone of color either on a court or a running track. His biceps rippled as he held his woman. His very long legs encased in a slightly faded dark blue levis looked stunningly muscular, again a visible affect of long hours of paying attention to one’s body parts for the sake of self or maybe the lady love he was holding flush against his very yummy body.

Now, the ladylove was drawing her own attention. She was tall, pale, and with shiny jet-black hair that fell almost to her waist. Not sticky thin but lightly voluptuous. Her skinny jeans accentuated the butt quite generously while shaping her strong legs well. She knew how to sway her bums in this noticeable way. Every man and woman was looking on with different motions filtering through their body parts.

My man returned with drinks and I momentarily lost track of the sex on the dance floor. But I took a big swig of my rum and coke to calm my nerves a little—too much stimuli in the first hour of being in this harem-like setting! My poor petite body was being zinged and stretched to dangerously high voltage. But suddenly the drink was taken away from my hand as a pair of lips pressed into my forehead.

“What?” I looked into a pair of smiling eyes.

“Baby, go slow on the drink. This is not just Coke but Coke mixed in Rum. This needs to be nursed slowly with caution, okay?”

“Okay,” I replied before reaching for my glass to take another generous swig, daring him to say something. His one-eye brow cocked as a smile twisted on his lips. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead he plonks down next to me, kisses my forehead again while slipping a hand around my waist as he leans back into the sofa rest. I lean against him with a slightly tilted glass in my hands whose straw is stuck between my lips. No, I was not letting go of the rum in the coke. I needed it inside me like I needed something else inside me, desperately. The chest-breath combination on my back was adding to my desperation. I know requiting it would be the result of a fried brain or even a dehydrated one in my case.

Wady and continue their conversation in hushed tones behind my back, literally! I don’t care for their conversation. My eyes are once again feasting on the sex-play on the psychedelic parquet floor. The constant rubbing of warm fingers on my back, the rum and coke flowing through my system, and the hypnotic movement of lights and lights on swaying bodies was enough to make me go into a trance, where I lost sense of physicality, of where I sat—my arms, legs, and active processing consciousness. I didn’t even feel myself laying back against a solid front that smelled of some cologne that I cannot name. But it was heady, titillating my olfactory buds. I snuggled back into his arm that came around my rib cage just below my breasts and tightened. I felt his chin on my head, occasionally rub back and forth.

God! Is it possible to be horny and sleepy at the same time? I guess it is. I held on to his arms holding me, rubbing them gently. I liked the feel of hair along their length and suddenly the music changed from slow to thumping. The dance floor came alive! I wanted to dance suddenly. I moved to get up but the band of arms under my breasts refused to relent. I wiggled a bit. No, no go. He wasn’t letting go this easily.

“Do you want to dance?” A breathy question whooshed into my left ear. I shivered visibly like an icy draft of cold air had escaped into the warm space. I look at him sideways and nod. His lips are on my cheek again as was the smile.

“I’d do whatever you want to, love.”

“Oh! Okay. I needed to get up and feel my body again and the DJ was playing my song. So I wiggle out of his grasp and push against his thigh, urging him to either let me slip past him or to accompany me to the floor. He immediately stands and in the next second pulls me to the dance floor. I am suddenly vertical and flushed against him. He twirls me and we are dancing! My feet are creating rhythmic shapes along the floor, I am swirling my hair like I am possessed, and my bums cannot let go of the drumbeats—they are unstoppable! I am uncontained. Music does that to me. My body feels alive and my proximity to this man enhances that feeling by ten times.

I open my eyes to see him semi-stationary before me—his feet planted on either side of me, his hand turned at his elbows in a semblance of movement synchronizing with the music. His eyes are glued to my face as he half smiles at me. He slowly extends his left arm to pull me into his parted stance and we begin to move together—our hips joined on either side, our faces close enough to feel each other’s breaths. I immediately close my nostrils. I don’t want to breathe him in. His hips and groin swaying against me are heady enough. If I smell him too, I would lose a little of my semi-conscious state. I need to be alert at this time just so I can enjoy these feelings radiating through me. The man cannot dance for nuts but the man could pretend to dance for a dollar. His mock-stationary stance on the floor is his signature style. As he moves to his left, his semi-hard state connects with my semi-liquid state and I stumble a little. As he steadies me back into his semi-hardness, I reel again. The music makes this other kind of dance legitimate but barely. And despite my chagrin I am alight with previously unnamed, undiscovered desires that are obviously no longer undiscovered though are still unnamed.

How do I name the look that we give each other as our bodies nuzzle and settle and then unsettle into each other, especially our lower halves; how do I name the involuntary rubbing against each other in the name of music wrapping around us and wrapping us in each other. I am wrapped around this pelvis. I have found a comfortable discomfort and for some perverse reason, I decide to extend my discomfort and his in the process. I begin to grind my hips against his and even slightly hook my leg around his hips to ensure there is no breathing space between our legs. His eyes get rounder at my audacity but he smiles—it is bordering on roguish, I decide. And I immediately know what’s coming. I am in trouble, I know. His hand reaches behind my back to begin its casual slide to the back of my neck and then quietly slides into my slightly disheveled hair where he holds my head stationary so he can pierce me with his now blue/black eyes.

I am lost at this point and the night was just beginning. He bent his knees suddenly and without warning lifted me up towards his face. I am dizzy—no, I don’t like heights even if that height was me two meters from the ground. I balanced my arms against his biceps that were straining under that mauve sleeve to look at him—questioning, curious and desirous at the same time.

His lips hovered over mine as he breathed out, “Can I kiss you, Bits?” I gasp. He was using my pet name. We were getting personal at all levels this up and close. Ms. Sharma I was no longer. The distance this formality had created earlier has now been smashed to bits—no pun intended. I nod.

But his head is already dipped and my bottom lip is being sucked like a hard candy. Oh, god! I keep my eyes closed. I am suspended an inch from the pulsating floor having my lower lip being sucked into vacuum oblivion. I know I moan even though I cannot even hear my self in the din of my hammering heart, forget the music. The music is low compared to my heart, drumming like ten thousand African drums in an acoustically sound space. He licks the crack between my half closed lips and I open and he enters, sucking everything. As he takes greedily, my senses have exploded, keeled over, and buried deep into my stomach—fluttering like a million, confused, disoriented butterflies. He reluctantly releases my mouth but not before making a demonstration of his reluctance—his lips leave mine in a whoosh, like the air rushing into a vacuumed space called our mouths. My feet find hard. But I have no feelings in my feet left at this point. He knows. His arms remain wrapped around me. His forehead is now resting against mine. He is breathing hard and speaking of hardness, there is a significant increase in his tumescence. Thank god for dark jeans and an even darker space—where there is no shame in practicing sexual desire. I am sure everyone else on the floor is in the same state as us and feeling bloody good about it.