Let me set the pace of this adventure to the cadence of his footsteps on hardwood, his hand on the small of my back leading me to the bar next to the dark theatre.
Sun, stream in through the panes, warm my bones and bring on the golden shine in my hair. My smile reaches out, as if it were my hand, and touches your eyes. I weave my fingers into your hair, over and over. I turn my knuckles to your cheek, and back to my palm, a connective kneading into your being. I am unable to stop the pad of my thumb from tracing the line of your jaw. Mouth to the ceiling, my laughter escapes, bursts out with sweet joy for the minutes we have together, and I am rewarded as your grin erupts, the one reserved for me.
This grin is not the the one you try to hide by looking away, by putting that dark glass of Porter to your lips when we are seated side by side, your good ear to my left. That grin is still there, an hour later, as we find ourselves batting back and forth yet another, differing opinion. Conversation with you, so easy, so heady, especially as your raised eyebrow and my appalled gasp meet across the bar to challenge the topic. I can feel how well we fit and fuel each other.
Your arguments do not sway me. Nor mine, you. Traditional and practical, I want to turn and straddle you on your bar stool and soak up your smirk and cut down your resistance to my words. While you, so turned on by my talk, my mind, find your desire directing your hands to my boots, up my thigh and around the curve of my bottom.
We both win.
He was her cabin lover, a man of integrity. He would resist and reject her on principle and she expected no less of him.