The noise of the arrival hall was a dull roar that drowned out my heartbeat. I gripped the cold metal bar of the barrier as if it could keep me from falling. Three meters away he stood—his silhouette behind the glass door, which slowly opened. For a moment he was just a figure among many, but then I recognized the walk, the slight slope of his shoulders, and my breath caught. His beard had grown thicker, darker than in the video images, and he wore that leather jacket I hated because it smelled of foreign cities and whispered secrets. He was really there.
The First Touch
Then he was with me, his arms closing around my back, and I felt the cold of airplane metal on his skin. The scent of cedarwood and smoke penetrated me, and I buried my face in the hollow of his neck. “I missed you,” he whispered, and his lips brushed my temple, dry and warm. I pressed myself against him, felt the hard contours of his body through the fabric, and the months of emptiness melted in that embrace. Tears burned in my eyes, but I blinked them away.
“Let’s go,” I said as I pulled away, and my voice sounded steady. I took his hand, intertwined my fingers with his. The skin of his palm was rough, and his thumb immediately began tracing small circles on the back of my hand—a gesture that belonged to us, like a secret sign. We walked silently through the glittering hall, past vending machines and waiting faces, and each step brought me closer to the moment I had played out so often in my mind. His thumb wandered lower, stroked my inner palm, and I felt a tingling between my legs—not a vague feeling, but a real, physical desire spreading through my lower abdomen.
The Way to the Hotel
In the taxi we sat side by side, but the distance between us was unbearable. I slid closer until my thigh touched his, and placed my hand on his leg, feeling the hard muscle beneath the jeans. He turned his head, looked at me, and in his eyes there was a dark glimmer. “How much longer?” he asked, and his voice sounded rough, like gravel on asphalt. “Twenty minutes,” I said. Without a word, he took my hand, guided it higher until I felt the bulge under the fabric—soft yet firm, a promise.
“That’s mean,” I whispered, but my fingers closed around him, glided over the length, felt him awaken under my touch. He moaned softly, and the driver turned up the radio, a shrill pop song that filled the silence. The streetlights cast strips of light across his face, and I saw the tension in his jaw, the twitch of his Adam’s apple. “I want you now,” I said, and the words felt like a confession, like a thread winding around us. He pressed my hand tighter against him, and I felt his pulse through the denim, fast and strong. My fingers began to open his zipper, but he held me back, shook his head. “Not here,” he said, and his smile was a mix of torment and anticipation. His hand slid under my skirt, stroked the inside of my thigh, and I pressed my legs together, then opened them again, a silent offer. He pressed gently against the fabric of my panties, felt the moisture that had already gathered, and a soft moan escaped me. “Not long,” he whispered and pulled his hand back.
In the Room
The door clicked shut, a metallic sound that separated us from the world. I dropped my bag, and he came toward me, slowly, with an intent that took my breath away. His hands found my hips, pulled me to him, and his mouth was on mine—demanding, thirsty. I opened to him, let his tongue enter, and the taste of coffee and something smoky filled me. My hands slid under his jacket, over his shirt, felt the warmth of his skin beneath. His chest muscles tensed under my fingers. I began to unbutton his shirt, one by one, and he let me, while his lips trailed down my neck. When the shirt was open, I pushed it from his shoulders, let it fall to the floor. My fingertips followed the line of his collarbones, stroked over his nipples, which stiffened under my touch. He hissed softly and grabbed my wrists, pressed them above my head against the wall. His eyes were dark with desire. “I want you slow,” he said, his voice a rasp. “Every inch.”
He turned me around, pressed me against the wall, and his lips wandered to my neck, nibbling at the sensitive spot below my ear. I gasped, arched my head back, offered myself to him. “I thought of you every night,” he murmured against my skin, while his hands pushed up my shirt. His fingers stroked over my breasts, and the tips hardened under his touch. He took them between thumb and forefinger, twisted gently, and a shudder ran through me. “Show me how much,” I whispered, and he laughed softly, a dark sound that echoed in my stomach. He let me go, stepped back, and I turned around, leaning against the wall to keep from swaying.
His eyes burned as he looked at me, and then he began to undress—first the jacket, it fell to the floor, then the shirt, button by button, with a slowness that almost drove me mad. I saw the muscles of his chest, the line of his stomach, the light hair that tapered downward. I wanted to touch him, but he shook his head. “Wait,” he said, and his voice made me tremble. He opened his jeans, let them fall with a single motion, and his cock stood erect, the tip glistening under the warm light. My mouth watered, and I felt the moisture spreading between my legs. I pushed down my skirt, let it slide to the floor, and then my panties. His eyes followed every movement, and he stepped closer, placed his hands on my hips, pulled me to him. His erection pressed against my stomach, and I felt the warmth radiating from him. He leaned forward, his tongue found my mouth, while his hands slid over my back, down to my ass. He kneaded the soft skin, pulled me even tighter against him, and I felt his cock pressing against me. “I want to taste you,” he said, and dropped to his knees.
Unloading the Longing
His hands cupped my thighs, opened me to his gaze. He looked at me, and I saw there
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