Last night after work, I went out to dinner with a few colleagues. At the table next to us was a group of young women, probably in their early to mid-twenties. One of them, a tall and slender girl, caught my eye. She was wearing a tight white short-sleeve top that hugged her curves, the outline of her bra clearly visible. A sliver of her toned waist peeked out, and she had on a long denim skirt that reached past her knees, but it had a long slit up the front-left side. Sitting there, nearly her entire left thigh was exposed, drawing my attention.
I kept up with the chatter and laughter at our table, but my eyes kept drifting to her legs, hoping for a moment when she’d shift and I’d catch a glimpse of something more. She kept her legs crossed, though, expertly guarding the mysterious space between them.
Then she suddenly got up to head to the restroom. I missed my chance to see anything and kicked myself, staring toward the bathroom, waiting for her to return. When she did, I was ready, watching as she walked back slowly, her steps making the skirt sway, her long, slender legs quickening my pulse.
The moment she went to sit down was pure gold. She reached for her bag on the chair, lifting one leg to step under the table. The slit in her skirt parted wide, and I swallowed hard, my eyes locked on the soft, tender skin of her inner thigh. As she sat down, there it was—a fleeting glimpse of peach-pink fabric nestled between her legs, her panties perfectly framed by the open slit. The LED mood lighting under the table cast a soft glow, illuminating every detail of that intimate flash, making the delicate outline of the fabric pop against her skin. It was a heart-stopping moment, brief but electric.
She quickly crossed her legs again, but that gorgeous leg, still framed by the slit, kept pulling my gaze. We left before their table did, and I couldn’t help but think—if I were ten years younger, I might’ve mustered the nerve to ask for her number.
|