She was young: 20, perhaps; no more than 23 at the outside. She was short, too. Five foot five. She had glorious brown milk chocolate skin and short, peroxide blonde curls. She had no real ass to speak of and her tits weren’t anything special, but her sex appeal came more from the way she wore her clothes than directly from her body.

She wore a pair of jeans that were slung low on her hips and swayed when she did. Her shirt was a plain white wife beater, thickly knotted in the back so that it hugged her body tightly and showed the world that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Instead, the shirt served as the bra: it lifted her breasts and held them in place.

She had a tattoo high up on her back that was clearly framed by the scoop in the back of the shirt, which drew the eye to her perfect neck. When she turned around, though, her large, dark areolas were perfectly visible through her shirt, if you knew where to look (and most men, it appeared, knew where to look).

When she walked, her hips seemed to do most of the movement and, as they did, everyone’s eyes seemed to be drawn to them. From ten steps back, he watched with a knowing smile as the heads of the entire room swiveled to watch her progress.

She accented her body for a reason, it seemed. Up close, her face would not have gotten her on the cover of Vogue. Her eyes were wide, but so were her lips and she showed entirely too many teeth when she smiled. Her pug nose was cute, but it did not fit the rest of her face well at all: it was the wrong proportion and it gave her an expression of unapproachability that belied the message that the rest of her body sent.

In other clothes, she might appear differently. What she accented here might show up differently in a dress or a skirt and he hated to imagine what her hair would look like long. It would cover up far too much of her neck, for one.