Blame It On The Gin:On The Rocks

And the more I take in her curves, her waist, her big tits, a smile that could light up the room, I realize she is totally out of her element. She has been hoisted up by a girl in leopard print who is cheering, "Shots, shots, shots."

The birthday girl has a crown on her head and deep chocolate brown eyes that are melting my heart. It’s obvious to me that she’s being a team player, though not exactly excited to be standing above the crowd.

However, she takes the offered shot and throws it back like she understands she's there for a good time. Maybe not her good time, but for the rest of her friends. She does a little curtsy.

"See?" she addresses the friends. "I can handle my liquor."

Just as she says that, though, her foot slips on the shiny bar top and she begins to plummet to the ground.

Reaching out, I catch her. And as I do, my drink gets sloshed all over my shirt and jacket. When her feet touch the ground, her arms wrap around my bicep.

"Oh my God," she says, "I'm a thousand kinds of mortified. I think everyone here just saw my bare ass."

"You're not wearing panties?" I ask.

"Fair. I am wearing panties, so it wouldn't be my bare ass. It would be my pantied ass."

I chuckle, reaching for a napkin and trying to dab the gin that's all over my shirt. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm totally embarrassed."

"I'm not," I say. "I wanted that martini shaken, not spilled, but now I need to order some more gin."

She laughs, "No, I'm your gin. At least, I'm your Ginny." She cringes. "Sorry. I was trying for a cute joke and it fell flat."

"I'm Grant," I say, loving her honesty. "Good to meet you, Ginny."

Our eyes lock, and I admit to being transfixed. She is something otherworldly. Her jet-black hair and her dark brown eyes are a cacophony of desire. She has big pouty lips and hardly any makeup on her face. Her dress is tight in all the right ways, hugging her tits but flaring at out at her waist.

I bite my bottom lip, unable to stop looking. But she’s nervous. Apparently, the stare goes on a beat too long because, flustered, she reaches for more napkins on the counter. "Let me clean you up," she says. "You're a mess."

My shirt is completely soaked. The napkins are not working.

“We need paper towels,” she says. "Come on. Let's go to the bathroom." She takes me by my wrist and drags me through the bar, taking charge. I like it.

I close the door on us, and suddenly, we’re alone in a single-occupant bathroom. There's a sink, a toilet, a door, an overflowing trash can, and a stack of paper towels on the sink.

She grabs one. "Um, this got weird," she says.

"It's not weird," I say, "but it did get intimate."

She nods, letting out a sigh. "Let me see the damage." She begins dabbing my shirt with the paper towels, but they aren’t helping. Now, disintegrating paper towels are smashed into my dress shirt.

Her face falls. "I'm sorry. I'm making it worse."

"Not worse. I like it." She looks up at me, licks her lips. Her hands are on my chest and her eyes, they're back on mine.

"Are you nervous?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No, I'm not nervous at all. I'm actually,” she whimpers, “pretty turned on."

"Really?" I’m shocked at her honesty.

"Sorry. I can’t help myself. I always say it like it is. And I was reading this office romance earlier. And basically, you were the main character. Dark suit, narrow tie, a face that looks like..." She holds up an open-palmed hand, making a circle right in front of me. "...that looks like that. Five o'clock shadow, dark hair, green eyes. I mean, you’re really hot."

I chuckle. "Okay. You're more than just saying it like it is. You're really good at flattering me."

"It's not flattery," she says. "It's..." She swallows, pushing her hands off my chest and stepping back. "You're a lot to take in."

"I could say the same about you." I step toward her, not wanting space between us. "Look at you," I say, "in this little dress, a crooked crown, bare shoulders that are making me crazy, bare legs too. Maybe you're wearing panties. Maybe not."

She smiles, lifting a finger. "I most certainly am, Mr. Grant," she says, pressing my chest with her forefinger.

I step back, letting her push me into the door, wanting her to have a sense of control, even though I want to dominate this moment. I want my lips on hers, my hands on her. I want her.

"You asked what I was thinking. What about you?" She turns the tables on me.

"I'm thinking I'm really turned on too."

Her eyes widen; her smile turns sultry. And I lean in.