“So you’re still with him?” His voice cut through the hum of the coffee machine, through the murmuring of the other guests. I gripped my cup like it was a lifeline. Ben’s voice had barely changed over all those years—only a bit deeper, rougher, like leather that had lain too long in the rain.
I nodded without looking at him. “Yes. For twelve years.”
“Twelve years,” he repeated softly. “That’s a long time.”
Only then did I dare to lift my head. Ben was still tall, broad-shouldered, with those dimples that had driven me crazy back in school. But now he wore a light stubble that shadowed his chin, and had fine laugh lines around his eyes that made his gaze deeper. He looked good. Damn good. His body under the dark blue shirt was more muscular than before, his shoulders broader, his hands bigger. I imagined how those hands would touch me, and a hot shiver ran down my back.
“And you?” I asked, to fill the silence that suddenly lay heavy between us.
“Divorced. For two years.”
The words hung in the air, unspoken possibilities. The seminar hotel was old-fashioned, with dark wooden furniture and heavy curtains that muffled the rain outside. A steady drizzle fogged the windows. We sat in the lounge, surrounded by other participants absorbed in their laptops and notebooks. But for me, in that moment, there was only Ben. His gaze burned on my skin, making my nipples harden under the thin blouse.
“Do you remember,” he said, a smile spreading across his face, “how we kissed back then on the graduation trip? Behind the gymnasium?”
I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. Between my legs, it grew wet at the memory. “That was just a game. Truth or Dare.”
“It didn’t feel like a game.” His eyes were dark, probing. “Not for me. I didn’t sleep a wink that whole night because I could only think about how your lips tasted.”
I swallowed. My heart pounded against my ribs, and I hated myself for still reacting this way. My panties were slowly getting wet, just from his gaze, his voice. “Ben…”
“I know,” he interrupted me gently. “You’re married. But we’re here, by chance, after all these years. Isn’t that… a sign?”
A sign of what? I thought. That fate has a cruel sense of humor? That I’d never freed myself from my youthful longing? I shook my head, but my fingers trembled as I set down the cup. Between my thighs, there was a throbbing, an empty, aching heat I hadn’t felt in months.
“Maybe we should go back to the seminar,” I said quietly.
“In a minute. But first tell me one thing: Are you happy?”
The question hit me like a blow. Happy? I had a solid husband, a house, a secure job. But happy? I opened my mouth, but the words stuck in my throat. Markus and I—we fucked once a month, quick, routine, without passion. He came after three minutes, rolled over, and snored. I lay awake, with a sharp craving that was never satisfied.
“I thought so,” Ben said softly. His gaze wandered over my breasts, and I felt them tighten under his look.
We walked back to the seminar room in silence, and I felt his closeness like a crackle on my skin. The remaining lectures drifted past me like cotton. I couldn’t concentrate. Again and again, my gaze wandered to Ben, who sat two rows ahead of me, and I watched the movement of his shoulders when he took notes. I imagined how he would take me—hard, demanding, the way he’d always been back then. My cunt grew wet at the thought, and I pressed my thighs together to ease the pulsing.
In the evening, there was a buffet, and then most retreated to their rooms. I stood at the bar, a glass of wine in my hand, staring at the jumble of glasses and bottles. I had sent Markus, my husband, a message: “Seminar going well. Don’t fall asleep on Sophie.” He had only replied with an emoji. That was all our marriage was anymore: short messages, fleeting touches, living side by side. No real sex anymore, no passion. Just habit and loneliness.
“Another glass?” Ben’s voice was close, his breath brushed my neck, warm and spicy. His body was so close behind me that I could feel the heat radiating from him.
I turned around. He stood right in front of me, so close that I could smell the scent of soap and something spicy on him. His shirt stretched across his chest, and I saw the veins on his hands, which looked strong and firm. “I should go,” I said, but I made no move to leave. My cunt throbbed, wet and ready.
“Come to my room,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Just to talk. Promise.”
I knew it was a lie. And I followed him anyway, because I needed it—needed someone to take me, hard, without regard.
His room was on the third floor, a simple double room with two single beds. A window faced the park, and the rain had stopped. Ben closed the door behind us, and suddenly the silence was deafening. My pulse drummed in my ears. The key turned in the lock—a loud click that sounded like a verdict.
“Sit down,” he said, pointing to one of the beds. I sat down carefully, my hands folded in my lap. He remained standing, leaning against the dresser, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes glided over my body—my breasts, my legs, the fabric between my thighs.
“Why did you never call me? After the kiss?” he asked.
I laughed softly, an embarrassed sound. “I was sixteen. I was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“That you were just messing with me. That I imagined it all.”
He came slowly toward me, sat down next to me on the edge of the bed. His thigh touched mine, and I flinched, but he placed a hand on my knee. His fingers were warm, probing. “I never messed with you. I wanted you. Back then already. I often imagined fucking you—throwing you onto the bed and ripping your panties open.”
His hand was warm, and I felt the pressure through the thin fabric of my pants. I should stand up, leave, exit the room. But my body didn’t obey me. Instead, I turned to him, looked at him, and I knew I wouldn’t say no. My cunt ached with emptiness, and I leaned forward, pressing my lips to his.
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