“Your place or mine?”

Adam’s confident smile danced on his lips, one arched eyebrow enquiringly higher than the other.

Eve thought the tall, blond, blue-eyed Adam was heaven-blessed with looks, the most attractive man here, except the distinguished-looking gentleman she had abandoned near the entrance. She loved Alan unreservedly, always would, but if free to choose any lover within this crowded ballroom, Adam would be her choice.

She had waited for Adam’s move since rejoining their table next to the heaving dance floor. They faced each other, her knees together, his enveloping her slim thighs. They were comfortable together and exhilarated, completely oblivious of their busy surroundings. They spoke briefly, breathlessly of the day, the celebration each had taken full joyous part in.

For two magical hours earlier, Eve and Adam had sat together by prior arrangement for the celebration meal, thighs touching, absorbing each other’s warmth, stoking their mutual desires. They had touched under that trestle table, conscious of possible discovery, stroking, caressing, sending strings of tantalising tingles up spines as fingers felt bare or thinly-clad flesh. They even snatched hasty kisses. Mealtime convention dictated they converse almost fully with fellow diners; however, each were filled to overflowing with thoughts and fancies, flight and fantasy, exclusively each with the other.

Their first kiss, some hours earlier, began tentatively, somewhat nervously. Everyone who mattered to Eve, with one highly notable exception, watched that moment of guiltless passion. The new couple held hands. Lips gently caressed lips, until Adam released his light restraint on her fingers and enveloped her slim tensioned body in his strong arms. Eve melted into him, while that magic kiss endured.

They had shared just one dance after the meal, before she danced with everyone who had queued to trip the light fantastic with the acknowledged belle of the ball. She giggled guiltily, recalling indiscriminately kissing everyone in this swanky hotel ballroom, including a waiter and the DJ!

Eve even snogged her best friend, retiring to Carol’s room after dancing, to shower and change her sweat-stained formal clothing. Eve smiled, remembering flinging her sopping knickers at Carol, who caught them with a cry of “Eughhh!” Eve was returning them, having borrowed that spare pale blue pair only that morning.

Adam’s warm hand was on her thigh now, thumb caressing, stroking, stoking her inner fires almost to spontaneous combustion point. His eager fingertips mere millimetres from the hem of her skirt. Those fresh panties, she noticed, dampening already in her gathering excitement.

She noticed Adam’s thin gold band glinting on the ring finger of his hot left hand, while equally conscious of the pair of rings branding her own faithful marital status. Each closely examined the other, reading the mutual expectations of satisfying shared desires.

On impulse, Eve grabbed Adam’s suit jacket lapels and pulled hard, finding herself moving towards the object of his lips and mouth rather than draw his heavier form towards her. Time slowed to a snail’s pace, their mouths drawn like attracting magnets, adjusting the inclination of their smiling lips, anticipating the impending touch, expecting excitement, electricity, as their hot moist lips conjoined.

Their mouths touched, lips only, then Adam lightly ran his tongue along her lower lip. His right hand moved behind Eve’s head, caressing her long graceful neck, gently drawing this beautiful young woman further into his irresistible embrace. His lips pressed themselves deeper into his target, tongue insinuating between her crimson lips. She conceded, their tongues tangled, tussled, explored their sensitive perimetrics, breathing in each other’s sweet exhalations.

“My place is out ... relatives,” she shrugged, “Yours?”

“Mine, too, also ... relatives. I’ve a room booked, ten minutes’ drive?”

“Yours then,” she decided.

“Your car?” he asked, “I was driven by ... a relative.”

“Mine, then. Not mine, actually, but it belongs to a close relative.”

“A nice little one-litre Renault runabout?” he teased.

“No. It’s black, Rolls Royce Phantom IV, twelve-cylinder 6.75 litre, 453 brake horse power. White leather interior, smokey black windows and internal curtesy glass.”

“Impressive. Both car and your intimate knowledge.”