The smell of wet asphalt and freshly washed denim seeps through the crack in the door before I even see him. It’s that specific scent of rain on warm skin that makes me catch my breath. I’ve imagined this moment so often, in sleepless nights in front of the screen, when his voice came through the speakers and my fingers trembled over the keyboard—and between my legs, a damp, throbbing desire grew that I could only quell with my fingers, while I imagined him taking me. Now he’s here, real. No more pixels, no delayed sound. He stands in the stairwell, a large, broad-shouldered figure that seems to fill the narrow hallway.
His eyes find mine, and I see the same hesitation, the same tremor. Three months of messages, calls, video chats—and now this tangible closeness. He’s wearing a dark wool coat that glistens wet at the shoulders, and in one hand, a small backpack. No grand gestures, no ‘Finally’ breaking the silence. Just his gaze roaming over my face, as if exploring a landscape he only knows from maps. My panties are already wet, just from the sight of his broad shoulders and the way his hands hold the backpack.
“I remember you differently,” I say, and my voice sounds hoarser than intended—hoarse with lust that tightens my throat.
He smirks crookedly. “Smaller? Taller? More pixels?”
“Real.” The word hangs between us, heavy and full of meaning. Real—and hornier, so much hornier than I’d ever admit.
He takes a step toward me, and the smell of rain mixes with his own scent—something woody, warm, that I couldn’t read from any message. I smell him now: musk, sweat, a hint of pepper. My stomach tightens, and I feel my cunt getting soaking wet. I step aside, let him in. His shoulder brushes my arm as he passes, and that fleeting contact is like an electric shock that makes my skin tingle and shoots straight into my pussy.
In the hallway, he stops, turns to face me. We’re so close I can see the fine raindrops on his eyelashes. “I missed you,” he says quietly, and it sounds like a confession.
“You were never gone,” I whisper, and then I kiss him.
The kiss isn’t tender, not cautious. It’s a clash of hunger and months of deprivation. I press my lips to his, almost biting, as my tongue enters his mouth. I want to taste his saliva, want him inside me. His lips are cool from the rain, but his mouth is warm, and I taste coffee and something sweet. His hands find my waist, pull me to him, and I feel the dampness of his coat through my thin sweater. His hard cock presses against my belly, and I moan into his mouth. I want him closer, want to remove the layers between us—want his bare skin on mine, his thick cock in my wet cunt.
“I’ve been looking forward to this so much,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Show me,” I answer, and my hand wanders to his belt. I play with the buckle while I keep kissing him, and feel him get even harder under my fingers.
The First Touch
We barely make it to the living room. The coat falls to the floor, then his sweater, my cardigan. I stand in the dim light of the floor lamp while he looks at me as if for the first time he’s seeing. His breath is shallow as he traces the hem of my top with his finger, from my shoulder to the waistband of my jeans. My nipples are hard, pressing against the fabric, and I can see his gaze lingering there.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and the simplicity of the sentence hits me more than any elaborate love vows.
I take his hand and guide it under my top. His fingers are rough, the skin on the pads slightly calloused—worker’s hands I knew from videos but never felt. They glide over my belly, leaving a trail of goosebumps. I close my eyes and focus only on the sensation: his hand slowly moving higher, brushing the edge of my bra, then sliding underneath. His fingertips find my left nipple, circle it, and I moan loudly. My whole body tenses as he takes the hard tip between thumb and forefinger and squeezes gently. A shiver of lust races through me down to my wet slit.
“Is this okay?” His voice is dark, questioning, but I hear the greed in it.
“Yes. More.” I want more. I want everything.
He pulls my top off in one motion, and I stand before him in my bra. His gaze burns on my skin. Then he leans forward and kisses my shoulder, the spot where my neck curves. His lips are soft, and I feel his hot breath on my skin as he slowly moves downward. Each kiss sets off a little explosion. My hands bury themselves in his hair, still wet from the rain. He undoes my bra with one hand—he clearly has practice—and my tits fall free. He looks at them, mouth open, and says, “Damn, I want to take them in my mouth.”
Then he leans forward, takes my right nipple between his lips, and sucks. His tongue plays around the hard tip while his hand massages the other breast. I throw my head back, moan loudly. “Fuck, yes, suck on it.” He obeys, sucks harder, bites lightly, and I feel a hot gush of moisture run from my cunt. My panties are soaked, sticking to my slit.
He kneels before me, opens the button of my jeans with practiced fingers, pulls down the zipper. The fabric falls from my hips, and I stand only in a lacy bra and a narrow black lace thong. He looks up, meets my gaze, and in his eyes is such intensity that I feel naked, even though I’m still covered. He can see how wet I am—the thong has become transparent, clinging to my labia, tracing every fold.
“I want to taste you,” he says, and the words make me tremble. “I want to lick your wet cunt until you come.”
He kisses my belly, just above the thong, then the inside of my thigh. His tongue draws a wet trail while his fingers glide over the thin lace, feeling the warmth beneath. He pushes the thong aside, and I feel his hot fingers on my bare cunt. “Oh God, you’re so wet,” he whispers reverently. Then he dives in. His tongue finds my wet
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