I found myself walking, almost on autopilot, towards the nearest bar, craving a distraction from the overwhelming thoughts consuming me. I slid into a seat at the dimly lit bar, the clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversations around me failing to drown out the fantasies swirling in my mind. The bartender's question of what I'd like to drink barely registered; my thoughts were preoccupied with the image of him - his sharp jawline, the way his eyes held mine with an intensity that suggested he saw through to my core.
As I sipped on a glass of red wine, the warmth of it seemed to mirror the heat building inside me with every recollection of his presence. I found myself wondering what it would be like to feel his body against mine, to be taken by him in a moment of raw, uninhibited passion. I imagined his strong hands gripping me tightly, his breath hot against my neck, taking me in a way that was both rough and desperately craved.
With each sip, my desire grew, emboldened by the anonymity of the dimly lit bar and the knowledge that he was out there, possibly thinking of me too. The thought of his touch, firm yet gentle, commanding yet caring, enflamed my senses. I wanted him to claim me with the same confidence he exuded during the interview, to erase any doubt with the certainty of his actions.
I found myself longing for a connection that went beyond mere physical attraction, yearning for an encounter that could satiate the depths of my newfound desires. The idea of being with a man who could dominate yet cherish me, who could bring such a storm of emotion with a mere glance, was intoxicating.
Tonight, the interview was the last thing on my mind. I was hunting for a distraction, yet all I could find was an increasing urge to surrender to the fantasies of him taking me in a fervor of lust and passion. The bar, with its buzz of activity, felt like a mere backdrop to the vivid scenario playing out in my mind. And I knew, deep down, this wouldn't be an itch easily scratched; this was a craving only he could satisfy.
I could feel the whisper of silk against my skin, the moisture pooling in my panties a testament to the illicit daydreams that consumed my thoughts. I imagined his hands, those commanding, possessive hands, as they might explore the hidden valleys and peaks of my craving body. I could almost feel his hands, calloused from work, tracing paths of fire across my thighs, exploring the heat and moisture as I surrendered to his touch.
I imagined him here, a conqueror ready to claim his prize. The thought of him undoing my blouse, the buttons giving way, one by one, to reveal the hunger I could no longer hide, sent shivers through me. I envisioned his lips, hungry and insistent, mapping the territory of my flesh, claiming each inch as his own. I let my hands wander where I pictured his would go, the fantasy of his grip, his desire, his need for me as potent as if he were there in the flesh.