Dahlia ran her finger around the rim of her mug as steam swirled into the space between us. I watched, captivated by the slow glide of her calloused skin over the smooth ceramic.
It was like erotic meditation; the way I was so focussed on the scene before me while imagining the possibilities. It was like erotic meditation right up until she drew that finger right into the center of her mug and plunged it through the cream on her latte. Her chipped black nail polish disappeared beneath the frothy surface and then it was just erotic. When she slowly withdrew it, bringing her delicate hand right up to her devilishly full lips, it became torture.
“You’re staring,” Dahlia murmured with a barely suppressed smirk.
I averted my gaze, heat splashing my cheeks though I said nothing. I wouldn’t admit it, but I couldn’t deny it when she wasn’t wrong.
She grinned then, just a flash of pleasure before her lips parted as she deftly licked the cream from her fingertip.
I swallowed a groan, or maybe a moan, as I shifted in my seat. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, trying to figure out which alleviated the pressure slowly building between them. Neither did, it turned out. Not when she sat in front of me.
Her eyes flashed with mischief as she gripped her drink with both hands and continued telling me about the last proposal she’d worked on for … someone. It was important for… Something.
Usually, I did a much better job at listening to the things she shared, hanging on to every word and thought with the undivided attention you’d expect from a long-time friend. I was that, after all.
But I wondered if she’d ever notice that I could be so much more.
I wondered as I watched her run her middle finger along the seam of her jeans if she already had. She caressed the seam with the same fingertip she’d dragged through the cream, trailing her other fingers alongside it in a slow glide reminiscent of the way I touched myself.
The action looked harmless, maybe even mindless, but Dahlia was nothing if not meticulously intentional. Everything about her was by design, from the curated chaos of her short, cropped curls to the swipe of wine that decorated her full lips. Her classic dark jeans and lace top were artfully at odds with the leather jacket and spiked metallic heels she wore.
No, Dahlia was not mindless, but if her fingers moved much higher, I might be.
I don’t know when it started, this voracious lust for my dearest friend. But these days it was like I couldn’t look at her for too long or it would burn me up from the inside out. Watching Dahlia now as she skimmed her dainty hands, calloused from hours of tuning and playing her old guitar, up the inside of her thigh was like watching the sun.
The intensity of the desire I felt as she stopped just below the apex of her thighs could have fucking blinded the whole room. Dahlia fingertips moved slowly now, dancing in slow circled until they reached the joining of the seams at the core of her body.
My breath caught, tripping and tumbling against my throat as her hand stilled and remained in place. I watched, rapt, as she pressed two fingers gently against her clad pussy, applying pressure just against the central seam of her jeans.
Definitely not harmless.
Slowly, I moved my gaze up her body until it caught on hers.
Dahlia eyes sparkled with something sultry, spice and intention swimming in their depths. Without words, she asked questions I couldn’t answer. She held my stare for only a moment before those intense eyes began a perusal of their own.
Wanting Dahlia was consuming and I had no doubt it showed in my parted lips and peaked nipples, surely visible through the thin gray hoodie I was wearing. She stared at my breasts openly, and the shift of her fingers between her thighs was just a flash of attention that drew my gaze to them.
We’d chosen this quiet corner in our favourite coffee shop on purpose. We liked our privacy for the afternoon conversations, usually for the sake of being able to swear as much as we wanted.
Today, I wondered if we might be glad for it for another reason My coffee was surely going cold where it had been abandoned on the table I’d left it and I absent-mindedly wondered if I should grab it, drink it and pretend that I wasn’t utterly spellbound by the woman across the table from me.
I shifted again, and the seam of my own leggings ground against my clit with enough pressure to make holding back my whimper an actual effort, especially as Dahlia’s gaze dipped to my lap. A small giggle rose from her as she seemed to accurately guess what was happening, and she let her thighs fall a bit further apart, her middle finger pressing into her jeans more firmly, applying enough pressure to make her gasp as her pretty lips pursed.
I imagined what her other lips looked like. I wondered if they’d be as wet as mine and if they swelled like mine do when I’m needy and wanting. I wondered if her clit throbbed if it peeked out between them or preferred to stay tucked away for discovery. I wondered what she tasted like. I wondered if she’d let me find out.
“Hey.” Dahlia’s voice had dropped a register when she called my attention back to the here and now, and my eyes snapped up to her face.
“Hey,” I replied, voice breathy and uncertain but undeniably full of the desperation I felt in every cell of my body.
She watched me, that slow perusal travelling my body once more. Up from my lap, across my hips until it snagged again on my full tits and prominently on display nipples. Impulsively, I lifted one hand from where I was white-knuckle gripping the armrests to tweak one.
Now, it was her turn to gasp and I watched as her eyes went wide and those pretty lips fell open in shock. While she sat in front of me blatantly rubbing her cunt through her clothes, it was my innocuous tease that was the real risk. She had always been bold and, while this was new, it wasn’t something out of the realm of things she’d do.
But this sudden display of exhibitionism was utterly out of character for me, and it seemed to have an impact on her that I never expected. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed before slowly licking her lips. I wondered what her tongue might feel like against mine. The thought had me shifting in my seat again.
I ground against the seam of my leggings as my friend sat across the table from me, fingertips grinding against her in the very same way. I watched, hypnotized by the tiny circles she drew as she pressed her fingers into her pussy. I imagined she was playing herself in the same ways she played the guitar- in the same way she played me, really.
Dahlia’s ability to pull and stroke each string to provoke exactly the reaction she wanted from instrument and invitation alike was otherworldly. Nearly as captivating as watching her stroke herself in a coffee shop at three in the afternoon.
Her fingers moved faster, and it was an effort to pry my eyes from the delicious sight between her thighs, but it was more than worth the work as I took in her body. The needy posture was so becoming, yet unlike my confident friend. Her pert breasts were pressed against the lace of her top, nipples straining against the material obscenely since she never wore a bra.
Her chest and throat were flushed with the same heat that blazed in her liquid eyes. Her full bottom lip was even fuller, and wetter, as she chewed on it in what appeared to be needy desperation.
I’d spent weeks fighting a battle against my mounting desire for this woman, and yet it appeared she may be the first to give in.
“Dahlia,” her name was soft and urgent as it fell from my lips as I held her pinned in my gaze. Just out of the corner of my eye I could see her fingers still between her legs, her other hand still gripping the mug that rested on her thigh. It trembled but she held steady at attention, waiting to see what it was I’d say next.
I made her wait like that, enjoying the power I had from such a powerful woman. Deliciously in charge and permanently capable, seeing the state of desperation she was in was a heady rush of need that flooded my senses and soaked my pussy. I debated my next words, knowing they’d change everything. But I also knew I couldn’t stay here and I couldn’t go back. I needed what was coming next and, with any luck, it would be her.
“Keep going,” I said, and the gentle tone did not disguise the command or my own need.
Tentatively, she began to move her fingers again as I watched her openly now. I let my gaze wander across the wonder of having her in front of me, legs splayed in the worn leather chair and the scent of arousal between us just a soft undercurrent to the sharp scent of coffee that permeated the space.
Her long fingers worked steadily between her thighs and I shifted my hips, trying to ease the desperate need between mine. It did nothing as the shift of her hips began, a barely noticeable rock as she rubbed herself against her jeans as she moaned. The sound was so low I almost thought I imagined it beneath the soundtrack of clinking mugs and far-off conversations.
But when I returned my gaze to hers, I knew I had not. She pressed her eyes closed briefly as she worked her cunt. When she opened them, the liquid heat there was a plea that teetered on the edge of control. Dahlia’s lips flattened briefly as she worked her jaw in time to her subtly shift of her hips. Then, they parted, opening on a breathy puff of air as her fingers moved more furiously against the seam of her jeans.
“Just like that,” I encouraged her and then, just to emphasize my encouragement, I leaned forward until my hand met her knee. With one hand, I squeezed her knee. With the other, I squeeze my own breast.
I felt her muscles tense when she came against her own hand in the corner of the coffee shop at three in the afternoon, and I felt the rest of my life change.
She shuddered, soundlessly crying out as her body arched just enough to notice. I tried to take in the orgasm as it happened and in doing so, I lost my sense of self.
But as she regained her composure, she seemed to find hers. She sank back into the chair, posture relaxed as she lifted her mug to her lips once more.
“So,” Dahlia said casually, “you wanna fuck then?”