I had forgotten what his hands looked like. That was the first thought that shot through my head when I spotted him among the guests. Three years had passed since I last saw Leo — at our wedding, where he stood next to my husband as best man. Now he stood before an abstract painting in my husband’s gallery, hands in his pockets, studying the swirling colors with an intensity that reminded me of back then. Of the moment when he nodded to me before the altar, a small, private smile that seemed meant only for me — and made me shiver in the middle of saying “I do.” My pulse raced, and between my legs I felt a familiar, wet throbbing that reminded me of the nights I had imagined what it would be like when he finally took me.
Reunion
The opening was full of people sipping champagne and discussing brushstrokes. My husband Felix beamed in the middle of the room, surrounded by collectors, his laughter loud and carefree. I wandered through the crowd, nodding at acquaintances, but my gaze kept returning to Leo. He wore a dark suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, and his dark hair was shorter than before — stricter, more masculine. When he turned and looked at me, something hot shot through me that had nothing to do with the room temperature. It burned deep in my belly, a flicker that made me dizzy, while my pussy already clenched and grew wet just at the sight of him.
“Lena,” he said, and his smile was familiar yet new. His voice was deeper, rougher than in my memory. “You look breathtaking.” I felt heat rise to my cheeks, spreading down my neck, while my heart hammered against my ribs. My nipples hardened under the thin fabric of my dress, and I knew he could see it.
“Leo. I didn’t know you were coming.” My voice sounded strange, almost breathless, as if I had just run a marathon. My panties were already soaked, and I pressed my thighs together to hide the desire flooding through me.
“Felix invited me. I wanted to surprise you.” He stepped closer, and the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something spicy, musky — enveloped me. I could feel the warmth of his body, the proximity that made me tremble. “How are you?”
“Good,” I lied. Because in that moment, as his gaze rested on mine, I felt anything but good. I felt alive, restless, hungry — a desire I had suppressed for years burst forth with full force. My stomach cramped, and I could feel the moisture running out of me, while my whole body screamed only for him.
The Touch
The conversation drifted along, about superficial things — his work as an architect, my job as a curator, the art on the walls. But beneath the politeness lay something charged, like an underground current flowing through us both. When he refilled my glass, his hand briefly touched mine. A bolt of lightning that shot through my arm and discharged hotly in my belly. I looked up, and in his eyes I read the same desire that burned in me — unsatisfied, unbroken, inextinguishable. My pussy twitched, and I could almost feel him inside me, deep and hard.
“Come, I’ll show you the back room,” I heard myself say. My voice sounded hoarse, almost foreign, full of sexual tension. “There are some older works hanging that Felix didn’t exhibit.”
He nodded, and I led him through a narrow hallway, past guests whose faces became blurred masks. To an inconspicuous door. Behind the door was a small room full of canvases, stacked high, dusty. I switched on the ceiling light, the harsh, sober light that allowed no secrets. But I wanted no more secrets. I wanted him — now, immediately, without any restraint. My whole body burned with desire, my cunt was ready to take him.
Before the door had even fully clicked shut, I turned around, and there he was, right in front of me. His hands gripped my waist, firm, possessive, and I pressed against him, feeling the heat radiating from him. “I’ve wanted this since I saw you,” he whispered, and his breath brushed my lips, warm and desiring. I felt his hard cock already through his pants, pressing against my belly, and my pussy grew even wetter.
“Me too,” I answered, and then he kissed me.
It was no tender kiss, no tentative one. It was a kiss that swept everything away — three years of marriage to Felix, all reason, all doubt. His tongue thrust into my mouth, demanding, and I yielded, let it happen, opened myself to him completely. My hands slid into his hair, pulling him deeper into me, while I took in the salty taste of his lips. I felt his hard body against mine, the fabric of his suit beneath which muscles were outlined, tensing under my fingers. My tits pressed against his chest, and I felt my nipples harden as a moan rose from my throat.
He pulled back briefly, looked at me, his eyes dark with desire, almost black. “Are you sure?” His voice was a hoarse rasp that aroused me even more. His hand slid between my legs, and he felt the wetness through the thin fabric of my dress. “You’re already completely soaked,” he whispered, and his fingers pressed against my pussy, making me moan.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I began to open his belt, my fingers trembling with excitement, not uncertainty. He helped me, let his pants fall, and then he stood before me, his cock hard and ready, the tip wet with desire. His dick jutted stiffly from his pants, thick and long, veins prominent, the glans gleaming and swollen. A sight that instantly made me wet, that stole my breath. I could smell the musky scent of his sex, mixed with his cologne, and it made me even wilder.
I knelt before him without hesitation, took him in my mouth. His soft moan was the only music I wanted to hear — a sound that vibrated through my entire body. I felt his hands in my hair, guiding me, and I dove deeper, took him all the way in. The taste of salt and man filled my mouth, his warmth, his hardness on my tongue. I licked the glans, circled the sensitive tip with my tongue, and he moaned louder, his pelvis jerking. I sucked until
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