After this our conversation quickly and unavoidably degenerated into an exchange of flirtatious double-entendres, wayward glances and suggestive strokings of fingers, knees and lips.
Trouble made her intentions even clearer when she pushed an olive, gently but firmly into my mouth, her flawlessly laquered fingernail trailing along my top lip before she pulled away, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of the hem of her skirt.
And I was hard. Very, and obviously, the fabric on the front of my trousers miserably failing to conceal anything but the minor details of my erect shape.
Her eyes lingered on the naughty bump. “I’d love to see…” she whispered.
The thought crossed my mind to just flash her – unzip, a couple of strokes, cover up. Twenty seconds of pure delight, but the art deco bar was an impossible space for discreet hanky-panky. Mirrors everywhere, no dark corners.
Fortunately, they found a solution in technology.