and I would munch on each others’ goodies … savouring the taste of muffins and marmalade.
Barmaids
Lara Lancey
The rooftop bar overlooked Madison Avenue but inside it was done out like the library of a stately home. Bottle-green book-lined walls, beaten-up leather Chesterfield sofas and chairs, low-lit lamps and candles, and, to top it all, a roaring log fire. The best of both worlds, really. It may have been fake, but it was still a corner of good old England tucked above the glittering streets of New York.
And best of all my business here was all done. I was free to relax. Yes, it was a slight nuisance that my flight back to London was delayed for a couple of days by the worst snow the east coast had experienced in decades, but hey. Other people were paying for my time, let alone my air fare, so what was the rush? There was no one waiting at Heathrow waving a placard. The office were eager to fête my successful snaring of an interview with the new Brad Pitt on the block, but we’d already communicated most of the excitement over Skype.
And where better to be stranded than in the city that never sleeps?
I found a big armchair by the fire and crossed one leg over the other with a swish of stocking. My legs looked too long, and exposed, in the firelight. I still wasn’t used to wearing this working uniform. I felt like I was playing dress-up. They’d all warned me that women in New York were impeccably dressed and groomed, especially in the publicity business, and they were right. The jeans and biker jackets had been left behind in my flat in Long Acre and here I was, zipped into a grey Chanel suit and a flimsy pussy-bow blouse.
I was sitting too close to the fire, and my skin was prickling up with the heat. I ran my finger round the collar of my blouse to cool myself. The creamy lace of my camisole tickled the surface of my skin as I fanned myself, and was swallowed into my deep cleavage as I sighed. I took a long swallow of my white wine, glanced down and noticed that my skirt had ridden up too high, exposing an inch or so of flesh above the stocking top. I was about to tug at my skirt when I thought better of it. The sight of my own pale thigh had stirred me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have ordered a second glass. I liked seeing the firm white skin exposed there. It made my stomach sizzle.
I left the lace stocking top showing. One or two of the men by the bar had finally noticed me, and had turned to stare at my legs. No doubt imagining the promise of what lay just under my skirt – my silky knickers, and then the secret nestling between my thighs. I read somewhere that men like stockings because they make the legs look bare, vulnerable, yet make them a brazen gateway, or pathway, straight up to the cunt.
My smile grew wider. Perhaps I could do what I’d always fantasised about, especially so far from home. Pull a gorgeous stranger in Manhattan, shag him senseless in his loft apartment somewhere near here until the sun came up, then do all the things they do in movies like sit in shiny diners eating waffles, walk in Central Park, get windblown on the Staten Island ferry, eat some more from a hot-dog vendor, go dancing, back to his for more crazy fucking in front of a huge plate-glass window so millions of other penthouse people could see, then go home flying the flag for English girls. Hell, it had been over a year since I’d had sex, and thanks to this job I’d had a total makeover and felt pretty hot. I was more than up for it, especially with another couple of Sauvignons inside me.
I swung my foot gently, so that the sliver of flesh between skirt and stocking stretched and shrank with the movement. I refused to catch anyone’s eye just yet.
An ice blonde with cropped hair, teetering silver heels and a minuscule sequinned dress appeared in the doorway. She was all alone, and surveyed the half-empty room, presumably looking for her date. I thought her glance fell on me, but with the hall light behind her all I could see was a kind of devilish glitter in her eyes, and anyway I would have been a disappointment
She walked just like Charlize Theron in the J’Adore advert, where she’s sashaying through a Paris apartment pulling off her dress and her pearls. She swayed straight up to the bar and sat down confidently on a tall stool. As the barman leaned across to take her order the girl slowly crossed her legs Sharon Stone style and I noticed with a thump of shock that she wasn’t wearing any knickers. The quick flash of pink slit was unmistakeable. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Her long fingers swizzled the cocktail the guy had given her, then she turned and her eyes locked on to me again. She tipped her head upwards in a kind of greeting. Or invitation.
There was a dampness across my upper lip now. I really was too hot. I stood up, feeling the leather seat of my chair sticking to my damp skin. I was desperate just to throw the jacket right off so that I could cool myself. I grasped the lapels, ready to do it. She was still watching me. I had a mad urge to strip, to really surprise her, and make the scattering of sombre men wake up at the sight of my bare breasts, invite them to touch me, do more to me if they chose.
But I closed the lapels again, breathing hard, trying to ignore the nipples stiffening against the jacket lining. Don’t be daft. Be discreet. I repeated this mantra. Don’t be daft, be discreet. It would be a good title for my next article. And it summed up the two halves of my personality. Up until now I had crashed through life dressed like a boy and was totally daft. But now I was doing the job I’d always craved, in a city I’d always dreamed about, and I had to be discreet. If I played my cards right at the magazine there was the possibility of a permanent relocation to New York.
A central switch suddenly dimmed the lighting even more, and some low, jazzy music came on. The barman seemed to be in charge of the ambience, if it was he who had dimmed the lighting. He was deep in conversation with the girl. Perhaps he was her date. Or perhaps she’d asked him to change the mood.
I was hot, I was thirsty again, and for some reason I must have been nervous, because my heart was pounding. I walked up to the bar. The barman was serving a group of older women at the far end, and the ice blonde was still there on her chair, still alone. She glanced at me. Up close her eyes had the depth and facets of a pale-blue diamond. Her glance travelled on down the front of my blouse, button by button. Then she glanced away, twisting the stem of her glass. One foot swung idly, dangling its spiked stiletto.
I drummed my fingers on the chrome, trying to attract the attention of the barman. But the cougars weren’t going to let him go. One of them had her bejewelled hand on his wrist as if to trap him, and was slipping a piece of paper into his hand.
The icy blonde looked at me again. Her pale, frosted lips parted.
‘Allow me.’
She hitched herself up onto the shiny bar, swung her legs over and dropped down on the other side. She started tossing the cocktail shakers around like a juggler, throwing ice, spouting colourful liquids, shaking them round her head and behind her back, and this was all for me. No one else was watching. It was just her and me, and then she was slamming two elegant glasses down on the bar.
‘Daiquiri Delilah.’ Her voice was husky, crackling with too many cigarettes, which made it quite manly. But the soft white breasts squeezed between her slender arms as she pushed the drink over to me were pure woman.
‘Delilah?’
‘My name.’
She was back up on the bar, and this time as she swung herself back over to my side I could see the full glory of her fully waxed pussy, the white sex lips gleaming like juicy scallops stripped of their shell, barely concealed in the slight shadow of her dress.
‘And what’s yours?’
There
