𝐼f Gus could, he'd have his hands all over you, all the time. He guided you through the crowded room, his hand resting on your lower back, dodging men and women in formal attire.

Gus was different from those men in black suits, laughing as if they were faking it, playing golf on Sundays and smoking expensive cigars. Gus had money, but he wasn't that kind of man. He was eccentric, wore the top buttons of his shirt undone, and didn't wear a tie. He liked feeling young; sometimes you swore he was a teenager in a 42-year-old's body.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons he noticed you, because you were the same, but you were still young. You were 20. You met him at a bar; he bought you a drink, so here you were now, at the company's year-end gala where he worked as the finance director.

He guided you to the exit; you'd forgotten something in the back seat of his car. He took the opportunity of being outdoors to smoke a cigarette.

— "Hurry up, doll." — he said, opening one of the back doors of his black 1965 Mustang, a classic car. He rested an arm on the roof of the car.

At first, you peered inside the car, but didn't see what you were looking for: your purse. You sighed when you didn't spot it at first and bent down to get half your body inside the car, resting your hands on the seats. Meanwhile, Gus was enjoying the show. That dress did a great job with your backside.

He took the cigarette from his lips and tossed it aside, placing his hands on your waist to lean down and kiss your back while you were busy searching for your purse.

He was distracting you, and you noticed he was slowly guiding you into the car, laughing playfully when you looked at him, confused.