As I pushed open the heavy glass door to the conference room, his gaze hit me like a bolt from the blue. It had been ten years since I last saw him—at my wedding, with a mischievous smile and a speech that made everyone laugh. Now, in this sterile seminar room, he sat in the second row, legs casually crossed, head slightly tilted as if studying the seating chart. But I knew instantly who he was. My pulse hammered against my temples as my eyes glided over the faces of the other participants and lingered on him. “Lena? Is that you?” His voice had barely changed, just a touch deeper. He stood and came toward me, and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. “Jonas. My God, what are you doing here?” I tried to sound casual, but my fingers trembled as I offered him my hand. His palm was warm, the grip firm yet gentle, and a shiver ran down my spine. “I’m leading the seminar today,” he said with a roguish glint in his eyes. “And you? Are you a participant?” I nodded, too perplexed to speak. He wore a dark blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and I noticed the fine hairs on his forearms. My stomach tightened—not unpleasantly, but with an anticipation I didn’t want to admit.
The Chance of Seating Arrangements
The seminar dragged on—lectures on conflict management, group exercises, case studies. I sat in the front row, he stood up front by the flipchart, and every time his gaze swept over me, I held my breath. His voice was deep and melodic as he explained the concepts, but I hardly listened. Instead, I watched the way his fingers held the marker, how he leaned over the paper, the muscles playing beneath the fabric of his shirt. During the coffee break, he sought my proximity, standing next to me with two cups. “Black, two sugars, right?” I laughed, surprised. “You still remember that?” He shrugged. “Some things you don’t forget.” His tone was casual, but his eyes lingered on mine a heartbeat too long. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks and lowered my gaze. “How’s Felix?” he asked then, and my husband’s name hung between us like an invisible barrier. “Good,” I said quickly. “He works a lot, as always.” Jonas nodded, and I knew he noticed the evasion. “And you? Missing anything?” he asked softly. I shook my head, but my body betrayed me—my chest rising and falling too fast, my hand trembling as I brought the glass to my lips.
In the evening, after the official program, I was drawn to the hotel bar. Most participants had retreated, but I still needed air, a cigarette, a glass of wine. I sat alone at a small table when Jonas dropped onto the chair across from me uninvited. “May I?” He gestured to my glass. “Wine? Red? Good choice.” I pushed the bottle toward him. “Help yourself.” We talked about trivialities—the quality of the seminar, the weather, the view from the hotel. But beneath the surface, something unspoken vibrated, a tension that grew with every word. I noticed my knees twitching under the table, how I kept letting my gaze wander from his mouth to his hands. He noticed it, I knew, because he began to speak more slowly, stretching his words as if to hold onto the moment. “Do you remember the summer after the wedding?” he asked suddenly. I looked up. “Which summer?” “The one where we talked on the terrace until sunrise. You told me you once wanted to be a dancer.” I laughed softly. “You kept that?” “I kept a lot,” he said, and his voice was suddenly rough. The room around us seemed to shrink, the sounds of the bar fading. I felt my heart pounding against my ribs, and a tug spread through my lower belly.
The Elevator That Didn’t Stop
Around midnight, I stood up, tired and yet wide awake. “I’m going up,” I said. He rose too. “Me too. Same floor?” I nodded, though I knew he was staying on the fourth floor and I on the sixth. The elevator came, we stepped in, and I pressed six. He pressed nothing. The lift glided upward, and the seconds stretched into an eternity. I stood close to him, smelling his aftershave, a mix of cedar and something fresh that clouded my mind. “Lena,” he said, and his voice was suddenly hoarse, as after many hours of speaking. “I need to tell you something.” I turned to him, and there it was—that moment I had both feared and craved all day. His hand lifted, brushed my hair at my temple, and then he leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t a gentle, questioning kiss—it was demanding, hungry, as if he had waited years for this. I moaned against his mouth, and my hands found his neck, pulling him closer. His tongue pushed into my mouth, meeting mine, and I tasted the wine and something sweet. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, the doors opened, but he pressed “door close” and then six. “Come to your room,” he murmured between kisses, his lips on my neck, his teeth gently tugging at my earlobe. I could only nod, my mind switched off, only the taste of his lips on my tongue, the throbbing between my legs.
In my room, the door clicked shut, and then everything was a single stream of touches and breath. He pushed the jacket from my shoulders while I tugged at his belt. “Slowly,” he whispered, but his hands trembled as he unzipped my pants. I let myself fall onto the bed, pulling him with me, and then he was over me, heavy and warm, his weight like a promise. “I want you,” he said, and it sounded like a confession, deep and intense. “I want you too,” I replied, and my body confirmed it—the wetness between my thighs, the tension in my chest screaming for release. I felt the pressure of his sex through the fabric of his pants, and a shiver ran down my back.
The Language of Fingers
He knelt between my legs, slowly pulling off my panties while his gaze burned on my skin. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured more to himself, his fingers stroking over my thighs, leaving goosebumps. Then he leaned forward and his tongue found me—first hesitantly, then more demandingly. A cry escaped me as he hit the most sensitive spot, and I grabbed into
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