Confession #27: The one about dinner flirtations and public displays of affection.

The restaurant that we decided on was comfortable; a local microbrewery famous for its barbecue ribs and steaks. Dimly lit. Quiet enough that we could talk, but busy enough that we wouldn't be noticed.

On the drive over, we'd talked a bit about possibly going out after dinner with some of my friends, people that I'd mentioned in emails that I'd wanted to introduce her to, if only so that she could associate faces with the names she read.

I remember thinking, as she walked up the steps in front of me, how sexy she looked. She was wearing dark jeans and, under her quilted coat, a nice knit top that was reasonably discreet, but hugged her in just the right places to show off her figure. And her hair ... she always managed to wear it in a way that framed her face so perfectly, always looking just mussed enough to seem casual, but still looked elegant.

As we sat in the waiting area as they cleared a table for us she kept smiling at me. Smiling like she knew a secret about me, or like I knew one about her. I found myself grinning in return, unable to help myself.

She leaned over to say something to me, but did it in a way that made me think she was going to kiss me. Right there, in the middle of a crowded restaurant. I didn't want her to kiss me there, to announce the intimate depths of our relationship so publicly. But, as unsettling as that feeling was, I found myself even more unsettled by the disappointment I felt when she actually spoke, rather than pressing her lips into mine.

She smiled again, knowing the reaction she'd inadvertantly caused. Knowing what she'd just done to me. I felt the heat of my blushing spread across my face as the hostess, holding our menus, interrupted our little moment.

Have you ever felt that? That feeling of skin brushing yours when you know it wasn't an accident, but are helpless to do anything about it? That energy that takes you and swirls you around and sparks something inside you, making you burn? Making you willing to do almost anything to release it?

I was flustered. I was blushing. We got to our table and sat down --opting to share a single bench seat in the booth so that we could talk quietly with each other if necessary -- before going about all of the normal pre-dinner activities; unrolling napkins and putting them in your lap, checking the drink and dessert menus.

There was a group of four in front of us, our view to them mostly obscured by the back of the seat opposite ours. Across from us were a couple, on a date or celebrating an anniversary or somesuch, though there were several times that I thought that the woman looked terribly bored by his company. I couldn't really tell who was behind us, apart from hearing ocassional laughter.

She touched my hand, asking if she'd embarrassed me earlier. She said she hadn't meant to, as she looked back at her menu. She said that she really was just intending to say something but then, as she got closer, there was sort of a natural instinct and she caught herself midway there. It wasn't something she'd planned, really. Just that I was there and she forgot herself and where we were and ...

She stopped and looked up.

I hadn't realized it then, but I must have been smiling because, the moment she looked up, she smiled, too. I touched her hand, my fingers running right between the slight undulations of her knuckles.

There was no need for apology or explanation. I thought, with that, it would be over.

We ordered dinner; salads and chicken (yes, at a place famous for it's barbecue and steak) and bread and cheese. We ordered a sampling of their beers, just to say that we'd tried them all.

The more time that we spent together, the more comfortably we touched. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was just that we had both so enjoyed the "re-connecting" that we'd done earlier that we wanted more. Or, perhaps I was just overly conscious of her touching me.

The more we touched, the more natural it felt to do so and, eventually, between us and out of view of everyone else, my hand found hers and our fingers wrapped together; that is, until the waiter returned and we quickly tried to make it look like we'd been doing anything but holding hands.

She leaned over to say something to me about him as he left and my hand rested, for just that moment, on her thigh.

I have always loved her thighs, particularly when they are wrapped around me in some manner. Intertwined with my own thighs. Encircling my hips or stomach as we kissed. Or, even, when they were squeezing against the sides of my face ...

I was only slightly embarrassed by the thoughts I was having. She and I both realized how long my hand had rested there, feeling the well-worn, soft denim and the warmth of her skin beneath it.

I expected her to move my hand, but she didn't. I decided to press the line a little farther back, to see how much she would allow me to do in this semi-public place, and my hand slipped down to her inner thigh. Still nothing.

My hand stayed there, tucked between her thighs. Pressing slightly. Squeezing slightly.

I knew the desire that could come from having a lover's hand close, but separated from me. I could feel a moist warmth developing, not only beneath the fabric of her jeans but also inside my own.

Her refusal to stop me was almost as though she'd dared me to continue and I, in continuing to push the line farther and farther, was daring her to stop me. And I am competitive enough that I was determined not to lose.

I felt a slight shudder as the back of my hand slid up over her zipper, under her shirt and over the soft, warm skin of her stomach before my fingers, finally, tucked into the top of her pants. But, still, she didn't stop me.

There, I could feel nothing but the flat bareness of her stomach. I had to be lower. I pushed hard, my fingers seeking that place where her flesh would fold, for that slit that I could spread, for any hint of wetness.

But, her jeans were simply too tight. She leaned forward a bit, resting her elbow on the table and her head on her palm and smirked at me. She was well aware of this little game we were playing.

She'd thought she'd won.

I conceded the ground I'd gained and pulled my fingers out of her jeans and her smile broadened. Until I undid her button. And then I tried again.

Her zipper gave way, easing downward as my hand forced itself inside her jeans with a slow, methodical preciseness. Another inch down, pulling her skin under my fingertips. Then another inch. And then, all at once, I could feel where her flesh separated into the beginning of a warm (and very wet) canyon.

The moment my fingers found that soft, wet flesh, her lips parted and her eyes closed involuntarily. I giggled.

She cleared her throat and asked if I was cold. I wasn't. "I am," she said. "Can you hand me my coat?"

I smiled as I handed it to her and she spread it over her stomach and lap. I'd won.

Her hips slid forward on the seat ever so slightly as she leaned back. Her thighs were tense. She was leaning against me, her breast pressed up against my arm.

I moved slowly. I didn't want the movement to be noticable under her coat. My fingers, though, were still pulling and pressing and probing, feeling the way her flesh responded to my touch.

She was trying to be careful, too, I could tell. I knew her well enough that I knew that her instinct was to spread her legs farther, to move her hips to match my movement, to press against me. But, she didn't. Instead, her feet were pressing against the bench in front of us. I could feel the muscles in her thighs tense as she pushed.

My middle finger, all at once, entered and slid and plunged into her. She let out a soft, whimpering "ungh." It was the first sexual sound she'd made in our little game, but it was enough to bring me suddenly back to where we were.

In a restaurant. With a couple across the aisle from us, and others nearby. It was night and the restaurant was only dimly lit anyway and we had a coat over her lap, but was that enough? If someone walked down the aisle next to us, would they see what we were doing? Would we be better off going to the restroom to finish this, or would that be more well lit? And, if anyone else came it there, it would be pretty hard to adequately explain why we were in that stall together ...

In defense of my lack of judgment, I was probably almost as aroused as she was and that was having more than a little influence on how clearly I was thinking. I knew we shouldn't be doing what we were doing but, in some odd way, that only added to the excitement of it.

As all of this was going through my head, her breathing was getting faster. She was doing a remarkable job of keeping silent, I thought to myself. I wondered, as I went from one finger to two, if I would've done as well were our places switched.

Under the coat, her hand joined mine. Pressing against mine through the denim and cotton. Pressing my fingers in harder. Urging it on. Her other hand found my thigh. Held it. Gripped it.

I remember thinking, when I knew she was going to come, that I hoped that she didn't make noise.

I looked at the coat, observing the small movements that belied what was going on beneath. And I looked at her face. The look of concentration and, at just that moment, felt the shiver and the tensing, the slight shaking and then relaxation of her thighs.

She turned her face up to mine and kissed me, hard and deep. If it was either that or scream in the restaurant, I much preferred the kiss.

I left my hand there, inside of her jeans and inside of her body, until I knew her climax had faded. Almost as quickly as I had withdrawn it, her hands went to work beneath her coat, buttoning and zipping her jeans.

"Are you ladies doing okay?" the waiter asked.

She blushed. "We're good," I said. She nodded. I thought, immediately, that he'd known what we were doing and that he was going to ask us to leave. I was only half right.

"Okay," he said as he left us with the leather folder with our bill, "I hope you ladies have a great rest of your night."

"Thanks," Mollie finally mustered, "We will. You, too."

As I looked at her, I noticed that she had the slightest sheen of sweat on her face. She may not have been moving under that coat, but she'd certainly been working.

I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't impressed with myself. Not only had I just given her an incredible orgasm, but I'd just done it in a restaurant. With people around. Without drawing attention to ourselves.

We argued over whether or not she would pay before I convinced her to just split it with me.

As we stood up and collected our things, I glanced for the briefest of moments at the couple that had been sitting across from us. The girl caught my eye, just for a moment, and grinned at me in a wistful and very knowing way. And as Mollie's arm linked with mine and we started to leave, I found myself smiling back.