Rachel Plays The Game

Instead we indicate. We play a game of social mores. We keep our touch to ourselves, but we entice them to touch anyways. We signal to them that the opportunity is out there for them, and that all one of us need do is get over that little fear and find that little **** that comes from the pleasure of another's company for the purposes of that most base and venal act.

Instead we play out a dance that we all somehow innately know. That some of us have memorized better than others. And Rachel absolutely knows what she's doing.

She steps forward a little, inclining at the waist and angling her head up a little. Shoulders back and almost strutting and preening like a bird, she moves slowly and fluidly, gently rising and falling like waves.

She doesn't stop moving. Her fingers and her hands, her feet rocking slowly back and forth on her heels. Twitches in the features of her face as she makes it so that it is difficult for him to take in all of her with a single glance, though he does a good effort of doing just that.

All of this is subtle. Each movement is almost imperceptible but the whole totality of them all add up to something unbelievably effective.

When she plays her fingers along the collar of the shirt she's wearing and tugs it just enough to show a bit of skin. When she nervously worries at the bottom of her skirt just enough to pull it up and show a little more thigh.

When her teeth nibble worryingly at her bottom lip and her eyes flicker, batting rapidly. When she inclines her neck and tilts her chin forward and then back, turning to the side just enough to show the long line of herself and make him wonder and dream.

What would it be like to have his hands on her hips? Those breasts of hers, pressing at the fabric of her shirt, whether they're as full and perky as they seem? How would it taste to press his lips against the skin at the nape of her neck? Would it be too forward to tuck that errant strand of hair behind her ear?

How would she look in other ways as well? In other moments? In other emotions?

The moment before she kisses him. The moment when she's caught in ecstasy. The blush after satisfaction when she's tangled up in his sheets and breathing heavily, her whole body twitching as the last waves of her climax subside and melt away.

He wants to know all of this. He wants to witness it with his eyes. She makes him want to witness it.

And thus this game, if it were a competition, is one by a single entry. Rachel takes the lead, bouncing back just enough that she is artfully out of his reach when she claps her hands in glee and victory.

"A discount!" she exclaims.

"Employee discount," he smiles and shrugs before leaning in conspiratorially, "But don't let anyone else hear or everyone will want one."

"That's so generous," she stage whispers in reply, "Isn't it, Emily?"

I narrow my eyes, half-shaking my head in bemusement, "So generous."

"We understand," Rachel goes on, "Your discount is ours. If anyone else wants one, they're going to have to convince another staff member."

He laughs, "Good chance on that."

Rachel raises an eyebrow, "No faith in them?"

"Let's just say that you two are a notable exception."

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