It was the curve that caught my eye, drew me in.
That sloping curve from your shoulder to your elbow.
An erotic arc of skin and muscle.
It’s embarrassing to admit. Like my fetish for a conference room table. But…
The curve of your right bicep ignited something in me.
I could barely take my eyes off it.
I wanted to lick it. I wanted to run my tongue along the line I saw. I wanted to sink my teeth into your skin.
I wanted to taste the salt of you there, grip its left counterpart in my hand as passion reared.
I wanted to feel those muscles bunched up and tensed around me as you lifted my hips and drove yourself into me.
Wanted to feel them wrapped around my ass and holding me steady as I ground my pussy against your mouth.
The sweep of that line, from the cap of your shoulder in a graceful angle down to your bicep.
I wanted to taste it a dozen times that night.
I very nearly did.
Just as I very nearly got myself off in ladies room after the first game.
I laughed as I fingered my clit in the ladies room stall, feeling it swell, wondering how you would react if I sent you a picture of what I was doing at that moment.
I contemplated coating my fingers in my juicy goodness and offering you a taste when I got back to the table. Or would I just tease you with my scent and lick my own fingers clean?
I wondered if it would have the same effect on your concentration as the effect a wicked line of sinew was having on mine.
I am lucky that I didn’t pierce an innocent passerby as my wandering mind played havoc with my dart’s trajectory.
I am lucky I still managed to win two out of three and keep my bragging rights.
I am lucky I got to take you home and let my tongue re-enact the sensuously filthy things I was thinking about at the pub.
I am amazed at how completely you managed to wreck me.
With the curve of your right bicep.