(For Isabella, who likes a well-cut suit)
This was a fine evening to get into trouble; in fact, she was looking at me over the rim of a luminously red drink.
A meticulously stylish dresser, Trouble has unusual poise. I've never asked, but I imagine she has a bit of dance training - the kind that takes years and involves standing en pointe while being shouted at. She was wearing a discreetly sexy outfit, a caramel-coloured jacket and skirt. Buttoned up, the jacket had a rather stiff-looking pseudo-Chinese high collar, but she had loosened it to uncover a scoop-necked red blouse that stopped just short of showing cleavage. The sexiness of the look had more to do with the fit and tailoring, particularly the way the skirt hugged her behind.
I was amused that she liked my off-the-rack suit. Trouble likes her men immaculately turned out, and she takes pleasure in fabrics, textures, and details.
"The fit suits your build," she smiled, eyes wandering down to my crotch.
After this our conversation quickly and unavoidably degenerated into an exchange of flirtatious double-entendres, wayward glances and suggestive strokings of fingers, knees and lips.
Trouble made her intentions even clearer when she pushed an olive, gently but firmly into my mouth, her flawlessly laquered fingernail trailing along my top lip before she pulled away, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of the hem of her skirt.
And I was hard. Very, and obviously, the fabric on the front of my trousers miserably failing to conceal anything but the minor details of my erect shape.
Her eyes lingered on the naughty bump. "I'd love to see..." she whispered.
The thought crossed my mind to just flash her - unzip, a couple of strokes, cover up. Twenty seconds of pure delight, but the art deco bar was an impossible space for discreet hanky-panky. Mirrors everywhere, no dark corners.
I glanced around. "You serious?"
I spread my legs slightly, leaning back in the comfortable chair. Her eyes fixed on my crotch again. For a moment I thought she was about to lean forward across the low glass table and close her fingers around the bulge.
Instead, Trouble handed me her slick black mobile phone. "There are ways of showing," she glanced at the door, in the direction of the toilets.
"What exactly?" I asked, teasing.
"Oh? And what do I get in return?"
"Depends on what I see when you return that thing."