I remember the first time she kissed me. We were standing in a crowded bar when she pounced on me, her husband only a few feet away, her mouth sweet and her hands warm against me. She pivoted and left me with a smile plastered all over my face.
That was so long ago, but I recall it like it was yesterday. She piqued each of my senses from the beginning. She was a spectacular woman who I grew to love instantly.
She brought out my wild streak with ease, mischief managing to find its way to us on our nights out. With her hands and lips all over me at the bar, men stalked us as easy prey, watching, salivating at our antics. We drew attention to ourselves wherever we went, flashing skin on our merry way.
It was a game to see how much we could get away with, and I played that same game with her, too. I was always flirting, teasing her with my words and my sly looks. I wanted her terribly, I made the fact very known. I touched her whenever I could, caressing her silky locks, my hands often wandering the length of her taut thighs. She would return the gesture eagerly, two nymphs on fire, the animal chemistry burning too brightly to be denied.
We relished in having an audience, and I relished in having her. I remember the first time I tasted her, in the back of her car as her husband drove me home. I kissed her passionately, my hands moving down to her skirt and in between her thighs, her bare pussy wet and swollen, ready for attention. I slid two fingers into her while her husband watched from the rear-view mirror in the dark. I slipped them out of her wetness and automatically into my mouth, smiling at him before kissing her goodbye, her essence dancing all over my tongue.
It was a promise of what was to come.