“Something to drink for you, sir?”
I dismissed the bartender’s question with a slight wave of my hand, not bothering to look in his direction.
Why would I,howcould I, when the most gorgeous woman I’d seen in my life was before me?
Marilyn Monroe—that’s who she reminded me of. My parents had never been ones for American culture because it did nothing but “rot the brain and poison the soul”, they would say. However, my mother made exceptions for that culture from decades past, especially the films from the sixties in their glorious, vibrant technicolor, films starring women like Marilyn Monroe.
It was only fitting in that moment those films came to mind. Something about the world around me changed as I laid eyes on her, the colors of the low-rent bar became more vivid, the blues and reds deeper and the silver of the moon more intense, as if real life had been infused with Technicolor brilliance.
The world around me suddenly didn’t matter. What did, washer. She was curvy, like Marilyn, with golden-blonde hair tied above her head allowing her gorgeous features to be on full display—her big, green eyes, her plump lips and full mouth set below a slender, pert nose. I could tell that she had the demeanor of somebody that always seemed to be smiling, as if nothing could get her down.
And her body. Good God, her body was something else. Her ample curves, from her full breasts to her round hips, were packed into a dark red club dress that was so fantastically arousing on her that it should’ve been illegal. The hem was short, showing off her thick, sumptuous legs. There was no doubt in my mind that she was American, there was something about the women from the States that I could pick out from a kilometer away.
I’d gone to the bar that night because I’d needed a diversion, something that would make me forget about the fact that I was stuck in the small town where my parents had grown up, rather than amongst the vibrant nightlife of New York City that I was used to. But in that bar, I’d found a jewel.
I had to have her. Lucky for me, I was a man used to getting what I wanted.
Right as I made the decision to make her my prize for the evening, one of the club lowlifes moved in, some gangly punk in a silk shirt decorated with a pattern gaudy enough to make my eyes hurt. He slid into the chair next to her at the table she shared with her group, laying on the moves good and thick.
My gut reaction was one of possessiveness and protectiveness. There was no doubt in my mind by the look on her face that she didn’t want his attention in the slightest. Hell, I wouldn’t even need to lay hands on him; any idiot in that place knew damn well who I was, and a sharp look would be more than enough to get them to high tail it out of there.
I cooled those instincts. Being a man in my position meant I didn’t need to hurry, and I most certainly didn’t need to worry, not that I’d ever been the type to. I took a few more seconds to watch the scene unfold, the man waggling his eyebrows and leaning in, the woman putting forth a bit of American patience before undoubtedly sending him packing.
She’d be mine. It was only a matter of time.
When I’d had enough entertainment, I turned to the bartender. He’d been waiting dutifully for me to give him my drink order. I didn’t spend as much time in the area as I used to, but my reputation was still strong around these parts.
“A double Makers Mark,” I said, asking for my favorite American bourbon. “A splash of water.”
The bartender, some kid barely in his twenties, nodded before reaching for the bottle.
I stopped him with a look, the kid freezing in place like a wide-eyed statue.
“And when I say asplash, that’s what I mean. Not in the mood for the sort of watered-down shit I normally get from this place.”
The color drained from his face, relief taking hold a few seconds later once he realized that he wasn’t in trouble. The kid went to work, carefully measuring out my drink with jiggers, adding just a bit of water. When it was ready, he slowly handed the drink to me, as if his life were hanging in the balance.
Amused, I reached for the glass and took a sip, letting the blend of water and rich, flavorful bourbon play on my palate before swallowing it down. When it had settled in my belly, I reached into my suit jacket and took out my wallet, slipping out a fifty and handing it over to him.
“Keep the change.”
The relief was instant, the boy reacting as if he’d just been given a last-minute stay of execution. If he’d made the drink poorly, I simply would’ve told him to make it again, and again, until it was to my liking. But the kid had produced a perfect blend and I was satisfied.
Drink in hand, I turned back to the beauty just in time to watch as the man, his expression of confidence gone and replaced by disappointment, turned and left her alone.
I kept my eyes on her, wanting her to see that I was looking. It didn’t take long before she met my gaze, a small smile forming on those plump, pillowy lips. Already, I couldn’t help but imagine kissing that mouth, picturing what it would look like wrapped around my cock. I tried to recall the last time a woman had caught my attention in such a way.
I took one more sip of my drink, preparing to head over to her.
However, I didn’t need to. Her eyes on mine, she rose slowly from her seat and started toward me, her hips swaying as she moved. Her dress was skin-tight, tight enough that I could spot the outline of her panties underneath. I imagined pulling that dress up, bending her over, moving those panties to the side…
“Can I help you?” she asked when she was near. Her accent was American, just as I’d anticipated. What Ihadn’tanticipated was that it had a southern flavor to it. However, I didn’t know enough about the specifics of American accents to narrow it down any further than that.
She was starting me off with a challenge—I liked that. I kept my eyes on hers, sipping my drink slowly.