The matchmaker - part I.

I met Vica yesterday over orange juice. The bartender caught her eye right away—broad shoulders, clean hands, the kind of man who moves like he already knows what you want. I smiled and offered to make the introduction. She bit her lip and nodded, and that was that. Later I found them tucked into a quiet corner of the bar. Vica’s short blonde hair brushed her collarbones as she leaned in, laughing at something he said. Her fingers traced the stem of her glass while his eyes drifted lower, clearly interested. I watched them from across the room, heat blooming low in my belly. We ended up back at my place, the three of us. Vica stretched out on the couch first, skirt riding up her thighs. She slipped two fingers beneath the thin fabric, teasing herself while the bartender watched. His cock strained against his jeans. I knelt between her knees and helped slide the panties off, then took him in my mouth—slow, wet, letting him feel every inch of my tongue before I pulled back and offered him to her. Vica wrapped her legs around his hips as he sank into her, blonde hair fanned across the cushions. I sat close, stroking her clit while he thrust, feeling the way her body clenched around him. Every sound she made pushed me higher. When he pulled out and finished across her stomach, I leaned down and licked the warmth from her skin, tasting salt and satisfaction. Vica’s fingers threaded through my hair, pulling me closer, and I knew the night had only just begun.