The wine swirled in the glass, ruby red, a viscous tide that crept up the side and then, heavy with its own sweetness, flowed back down. Lara stood with her back to me, her knife falling in an even, almost meditative rhythm through an onion. The kitchen smelled of garlic, thyme, and the sweetish haze of tomatoes simmering on the stove.
“Salt?” she asked, without turning around.
“Sea salt, coarse, in the top cabinet on the left.”
She reached up, her blouse riding up, and I saw a narrow strip of bare skin above the waistband of her jeans. Normally I would have looked away, out of respect for the unwritten laws of our friendship. But the wine had washed away my inhibitions, and so I let my gaze linger a moment longer than was proper.
“Like what you see?” she said suddenly, still with her back to me, but her voice had a teasing undertone I didn’t recognize.
I set down my glass, leaned against the counter. “The question is whether you like that I’m looking.”
She turned around, hands on her hips, the knife still in her right hand. Her gaze met mine, probing, but not rejecting. “You look different tonight, Max. Somehow more relaxed. Or maybe it’s me who’s seeing differently.”
I stepped closer, but kept a respectful distance. “Maybe tonight we’re seeing each other for the first time as we really are. Without all the filters and protective layers.”
She set the knife aside, wiped her hands on a dish towel. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “The risk is that you can’t go back afterward. That you see something that can’t be made invisible again.”
“Maybe I don’t want to make it invisible anymore.” My voice had grown deeper, rougher, and I felt the tension between us build, an invisible band tightening.
She came toward me, a single step, and suddenly she was close enough that I could smell her perfume over the garlic—vanilla and something woody. “Then show me what you see,” she whispered.
I raised my hand, slowly, giving her time to pull back, but she stood still, lips slightly parted. My fingertips touched her collarbone, glided over the soft skin to her shoulder, where I felt a thin strap of her bra. I gently pulled it down over her arm, then the other. Her blouse still hung, but the fabric now stretched differently over her breasts.
“Do you know how often I’ve imagined this?” she murmured. “That you’d just touch me one evening, without all this polite distance.”
“Why did you never say anything?”
“Because I thought I’d ruin everything. But now I’m drunk enough to believe it’s worth it.” She laughed softly, but it didn’t sound uncertain.
I unbuttoned her blouse, one button after another, and she let me. The fabric fell open, revealing a black lace bra that cupped her breasts. Her breath quickened, her chest rising and falling under my gaze.
“Beautiful,” I said, and it wasn’t a platitude. It was the truth, unfiltered.
I leaned in and kissed her, first softly, then more demandingly as she returned my kiss, her lips soft and warm from the wine. My hands found the clasp of her bra, opened it with a practiced click, and she let the straps slide from her shoulders. The lace fell to the kitchen floor, and her breasts were revealed, heavy and full, with light brown nipples already tightening.
I took one in my mouth, circling the tip with my tongue as she moaned and pulled her fingers through my hair. Her nipple hardened between my lips, tasting of salt and her own scent. She pressed my head tighter against her, and I switched to the other side, giving it the same attention.
“I want to feel you,” she gasped, “for real. Come to the bedroom.”
We left the wine, the food on the stove, and went into her room. The bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled, and she pulled me onto it without hesitation. I stripped off my shirt while she unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down her hips in one motion. Underneath she wore a narrow black thong that barely concealed anything.
I lay down beside her, let my hand wander over her belly, over the soft skin below her navel, to the fabric covering her sex. She lifted her hips, and I pulled the thong down, slowly, savoring the moment when her body lay completely before me.
She was already wet when I slid my fingers between her thighs. Her labia were swollen, slick with her arousal, and I stroked her clit, which immediately stiffened under my touch. She moaned, throwing her head back into the pillows.
“Yes, right there,” she whispered, and her hand found my cock through my pants, squeezing. I was already hard, and she began to open my belt with trembling, impatient fingers.
“Let me,” I said, helping her pull down my pants and boxers. My cock sprang free, the glans already slightly moist from the foreskin that had retracted. She sat up, wrapped both hands around me, and I felt her warm tongue on the tip, first a quick lick, then she took me fully into her mouth.
I groaned as her lips closed around me, her mouth hot and wet. She moved rhythmically, diving down again and again until I felt her throat, and I held her head, not guiding, just supporting.
“Don’t come,” I gasped, “not yet.”
She let go of me, grinned mischievously. “Then come inside me now.”
She lay on her back, spread her legs, and I positioned myself between them. My cock brushed against her slick labia, and I paused for a moment, looking into her eyes. She nodded, and I slowly entered her.
She was tight, incredibly warm and wet, and I felt her muscles contract around me, welcoming me. I moved in long, deep thrusts, every inch a fireworks of sensation. She wrapped her legs around my hips, pulling me deeper inside her.
“So good,” she gasped, “I knew it would be like this.”
I leaned forward, kissed her, while continuing to thrust into her, increasing the pace. Her hands clawed at my back, and I felt her nails as she gripped me tighter, her arousal reflected in every sound that escaped her lips.
“Come with me,” I whispered, “let go.”
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