Hunters

I saw her on one side of the dance floor, laughing, chatting and flirting with a couple who radiated a sexuality so confident that I could see more than a few other patrons either frightened or jealously angry at them, although Rachelle, I knew, would have been attracted like a cat to a catnip mouse.

He was wearing skin-tight, gleaming black pants and a black shirt, silk-shiny. She, I saw from the back at first, had a legs-hugging skirt over knee-high boots with 4" heels, and a high-collared blouse, skin-tight across her back.

Rachelle glanced around in the middle of a sentence, flirting with her whole body in her dress which made it so easy, and caught sight of me across the club, raising a shapely arm to beckon me over.

So things had been going well, then.

The night before, we had planned this with our usual care as we settled into the hotel and unpacked.

"I like the sound of this Michael," she said as she peeled her maroon blouse over her head, leaving her in a simple satin bra as I was trying to work out if we had been given enough coat hangars.

"Huh?" I asked, my brain trying to switch tracks and process what she had just said.

She stretched, popping half her vertebrae and thrusting her breasts forwards so that I lost all track of where I was and whether she had just asked me a question or not.

She rolled her head to look at me, saw me appreciating her chest and, smiling sweetly, bent down until her face, in my line of sight, was just above the down-swelling curves of her breasts. That didn't really help.

"I said," she continued as she reached behind herself to undo the zip on her skirt, "I like the sound of this Michael."

"Definitely promising," I agreed, without taking my eyes off the creamy flesh of her cleavage until she straightened up and pushed her skirt down her legs, showing me mesh, see-through panties that she doesn't normally wear with business clothes.

This was the fifth trip that we had taken like this, as I packed up my laptop and took my freelance writing on the road while her new job as an industrial relations troubleshooter took her around the country from corporate hotel suite to corporate hotel suite.

"Why are you still fully dressed?" she asked as her skirt pooled around her bare feet.

I abandoned my attempts at unpacking, and peeled my regulation black T-shirt over my head and threw it into the corner.

We have a routine now. The first night, we christen the bed. The second night, if possible, we go out to a decent alternative club and try to find someone to invite into it.

So far, the most difficult bit has been finding the right club. Finding someone delicious, adventurous and available had, so far, been comparatively easy.

Rachelle had her bra off by the time I was stepping out of my jeans, and got sufficiently distracted by the extremely flattering, second-skin shorts I was wearing that I had time to close the distance between us, wrap her in my arms and throw her back onto the bed.

She laughed, spontaneously, and the sound morphed into a gasp and then happy moans as I wrapped my lips around one cool nipple and sucked, at first gently and then with increasing pressure, feeling it stretch up between my teeth until she hissed and clutched at my head.

I changed to her other nipple, my fingertips trailing gently over and around the breast my mouth had just vacated, as her arms fell back over her head in surrender, until the pressure once more grew too much and she gasped, lifting her torso off the bed as her hands clutched at the sheets.