Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 176002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
The bar is busy and bustling with both drinkers and diners – a huge variety. Families, groups of friends, people in suits, women out drinking together. There are lots of couples, and some single seated people dotted around, too. Some random guys standing at the bar. Plenty of action all around me as I scope out a table for myself, checking out the guys to see if anyone is looking my way. But no one does.
Luckily, a table has just become available – right amidst the hustle and bustle of the room.
Prime position.
I take a seat and kick my legs back, giving a massive yawn before taking a look through the menu. My senses are prickling – the tide of conversations around me bristling with white noise. A loud male laugh gives me a zip up my spine, and I glance around the place. Ian could be any number of the guys in here. He might not even be in here… but the thought that he is gives me a thrill.
I let out another yawn, and rub my tired eyes, then zone back in on the menu. I’ll go for a staple. Cottage pie and a side of fries. Carbs galore. I go to the bar to order, resisting the urge to order a large black coffee. No caffeine for me this evening.
I’m hypersensitive to the eyes on me as I smile at the guy behind the counter.
“Diet Coke, please,” I say, “and a cottage pie with a side of fries, table fourteen.”
“Great,” he replies, and I give another yawn.
“Sorry, I’m absolutely exhausted. I’m going to be out like a light when I hit my room.”
He smiles. “Busy day?”
“Busy week. Feels like I haven’t slept in years.”
I wonder if Ian can hear me. My voice is loud on purpose, making sure I cut it over the hustle and bustle.
“Wait,” I say, realising my error. “Diet Coke won’t cut it. Scratch that. A large glass of house red, please. No! Make it a bottle!”
He laughs. “Sure thing,” and taps in my order. “There’s a thirty-minute wait for food. I’ll bring your wine over.”
Back at my table, I pick up a coaster and tap it on the table as I glance around, pretending to look at the décor, the pictures of game birds on the wall, the old books high up on shelves, while I check out every guy in the room. I pin a few as likely, two guys in suits, drinking wine and chatting. Either of those could be Ian. So could the guy at the bar who has glanced my way twice. He’s brown-haired and bulky, dressed in a smart blue shirt and black trousers.
“Your wine,” a voice says and I fucking jump. Jesus.
“Sorry,” the barman says, “you were miles away.”
There is no un-corking of the bottle or tasting the wine. The bottle doesn’t even have a cork.
“Enjoy,” he says, placing the bottle and glass on the table.
I unscrew the cap and pour a generous glass. It tastes good, fruity and dark. Another gulp and I savour the taste, the buzz, remembering my client saying he’d be savouring watching me.
Bolstered by the wine buzz and thoughts of filthy things to come, I shrug my coat off and let it fall over the back of the chair, a good backdrop to my exposed red cami and my nipples poking through the fabric.
I pick up my glass and glance around again. Not one of my targets looks my way.
I wonder where he is.
I wonder who he is.
I wonder if he can see me.
I wonder if he sees just how tired I am for real.
“Thanks,” I say to the waitress when my cottage pie arrives, and use the opportunity for more playacting. “I’m so beat, I hope I make it through it. Looks delicious.”
She smiles. “Loads of potatoes. Should send you off to dreamland.”
I eat slowly, savouring every taste. I sip my drink, and let the ambience of the bustle swallow me up. My senses are blurring – nervous excitement mixed with genuine exhaustion. But buzzing like a bitch above all that, is horniness.
Fuck, this really is horny. Eating cottage pie with my nipples tingling, and my pussy aching. The urge to touch myself is surreal. Any more wine and I might just.
I shift in my seat. The cottage pie is good, but the sensation between my legs is better. I pick up a couple of fries and take a slow bite, letting my eyes wander carefully, teasing myself. That’s when I notice a new guy, he’s ginger, not very tall, he’s wearing a suit and glasses. He looks my way and smiles at me.
Shit.
I chew on my fries while trying to smile back, feeling like a fucking chipmunk.
Is that him?
But no. He’s joined by a woman. She pecks him on the lips, takes his arm and they head off out of the bar.