Little Piggies
This was no casual one-night stand, his world suddenly filled with unbridled sensations, textures, and the once-familiar dissipation of long-buried apathy towards everything else around him.
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Playing with the toothpick that had branded a lone cherry, Alex slid it between her teeth. Mike watched the maraschino disappear between her lips, her tongue slipping in and out and side to side as she worked on it. When she was done, the maraschino was gone, but the stem was tied in a neat knot perched on her pink tongue.
Now this was a hell of a date, he thought as his jeans suddenly felt tight.
“Not only are you smart,” he laughed. “But you’re also very talented.”
She raised her hand to get the waitress’ attention. “I’m also a very cunning linguist,” she said before ordering another Blue Hawaiian. “And add a couple more cherries.”
After a few more mugs of dark and frothy beer coupled with a few sips of Alex’s drinks, Mike felt the buzz. He could feel his head swimming. They laughed louder at the bad jokes, and they both cried at the horny ones, wiping the tears from each other’s eyes.
After most of their drinks were finished, Mike danced with her as the bald singer crooned against the microphone. He didn’t exactly remember the words — raindrops, moonbeams, wishes… whatever. The man could have been singing about the pizza pies in the sky and amore, for all Mike cared.
All he cared about was the way Alex felt in his arms.
He liked the way she melted against his body as they danced, allowing him to lead, his feet moving side to side, front and back, and her body simply following, never leading.
He felt her hands against the back of his neck, her warm fingers playing with the dark hair, the skin that tingled, sending goosebumps down his arms. Like a chameleon in the darkness, she allowed him to permeate through her skin, becoming one with his body, once tired at the end of a busy day at the precinct yet now invigorated by the slow enticing sound of the saxophone and the tenor’s voice.
