It was all I could think of, the longing for her touch. But she was thousands of miles away and I was here in some
gin soaked jazz bar in the middle of another jetlagged town at 3:30 in the morning. A few regulars at the bar drunk and hunched over their liquid dates for the night.And then there was me, in my standard travel gear, of whatever was still clean and a black jacket.
Soft smooth jazz sifted through the air like silk on her bare skin. I couldn’t get her off my mind. Hair like an angels with lips full and red. She wore a vintage style black dress something like Ms. Von Tess might wear. Those sexy French stockings with the seams up the back and you know garder lay at the top. Id met her at the local hotel bar of what ever town at what ever time. Their was always at least one, sad beautiful, broken soul to meet. Her legs were long and strong like a girl who stood all day but she had the softest hands. I’d watch her come in the same way every time like cold wind had chased her in from the dark. Always the same.
If often wondered how she would taste against my skin. Would she smell of jasmine and vanilla. Or hidden spice and roses. Would her knees buckle under the weight of my tongue or draw short her breath with the caress of a learned touch. Teasing and pleasing every curve and crease. I always liked to let my mind wander up her legs as she walked by drinking in every inch. Breasts full and unbridled, nipples alive from the chill of the night. I yearned to warm her in my mouth as my hands explored her spreading thighs, wet from anticipation and wonder.