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I gave her ten minutes, then put on a fresh shirt and went down.
She was at the end of the bar, legs crossed, dark green dress, a gin and tonic in front of her. She didn’t look up. I sat two stools away and ordered a whisky and felt like I was sixteen.
“Is anyone sitting here?” I said, which was a terrible opening line.
She looked at me like I was a parking ticket. “You are, apparently.”
It took me twenty minutes. She made me work for every inch. She was a solicitor called Morag, she said, in town for a case, and she found me boring and then mildly interesting and then, after I made her laugh about my divorce, interesting. She let me buy her a second drink. Then she put her hand on my thigh under the bar.
“Your room or mine?” she said. “Not that I do this.”
“I’ve never done this either.”
In the lift she kissed me like a stranger would, hungry and a bit clumsy, and by the time the doors opened on eleven her hand was inside my trousers. We barely made it into the suite. She pushed me against the door, dropped to her knees, then pulled me down onto the carpet and rode me there, still half-dressed, both of us gasping.
Afterwards, lying on the floor, she turned her head and grinned.
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
Ending 7 of 16: The Stranger at the Bar. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.