I had forgotten his laugh—that deep, warm sound that once swept the ground from under my feet. Two years had passed since we broke up: no fight, just circumstances drifting us apart. He moved to Hamburg, I stayed in Munich. No harsh words, only a quiet fading. And now he stood in the hotel lobby, wearing the same black turtleneck as that first evening. My heart leaped, surprising even myself.
The Chance Encounter in the Lobby
“Lena? Is that you?” His voice had barely changed, maybe a shade deeper. I turned, suitcase in hand, and there he was. “Markus!” That was all I managed. He smiled, that crooked grin that had always driven me crazy.
“What are you doing here? Business trip?” He stepped closer. His aftershave hit my nose—a woody scent with citrus notes, stirring memories. “Yeah, a conference. And you?” “Same deal. My hotel was overbooked, they sent me here.” We laughed, a little awkwardly. Chance had brought us together, in a strange city, in a hotel neither of us had chosen.
“Have you checked in yet?” he asked. “Yes, room 412.” “I’m in 415. Right next door.” His gaze lingered on me a moment longer than politeness required. I felt warmth spreading under my blazer.
“Would you like to grab a drink later?” he suggested. “Or we could order something to the room, like old times.” Old times—the word hung between us. Back then, in our tiny apartment, when we’d sit together after work and talk about everything and nothing until the night grew too short. “Sure,” I heard myself say. “Your room or mine?” he asked with a wink. “Mine, I have a better view.”
Coffee and Memories
At eight, he knocked on my door. I had changed: loose linen pants and a thin silk top that showed more skin than necessary. “You look amazing,” he said as I opened. In his hands, he held two cups of coffee. “I thought we’d skip room service. I brought these from the lobby.”
We sat on the bed, since the two armchairs in the room were uncomfortable. He handed me a cup, our fingers touching. A slight shock ran up my arm. He seemed to feel it too, because he didn’t pull his hand back right away.
“Tell me, what have you been up to these two years?” he began. I talked about work, travels, new hobbies. He told me about his promotion, a sailing course he’d taken. But the words were just filler. Beneath the small talk, I felt the tension, like a rubber band slowly stretching.
“Remember our weekend in Venice?” he said suddenly. I nodded. “Back then at the hotel, with the view of the canal. You said it was the best day of your life.” Heat flooded me. Yes, I remembered exactly. That afternoon when we made love for hours, until we lay exhausted and happy in bed.
“Why did we actually break up?” I asked softly. He sighed. “Because we were too cowardly to change anything. Because neither of us wanted to make the first move to move in together. But now…” He set his coffee on the nightstand. “Now I’m here. And so are you.”
The First Touch
His hand landed on my knee. I gasped. Through the thin fabric of my pants, I felt the warmth of his fingers. “Lena, I don’t want to pressure you. But I never forgot you. Not a single day.” Tears welled in my eyes, but I held them back. Instead, I placed my hand over his.
“I never forgot you either, Markus.” It was the truth. I had just suppressed it, buried it in everyday life. But now, in this hotel room, everything was back: the desire, the longing, the feeling that something was missing when he wasn’t there.
He leaned in slowly, as if giving me time to pull away. But I didn’t move. His mouth was soft and warm as he kissed me. First gentle, almost questioning. Then, as I kissed him back, it grew more demanding. His hand slid to my neck, pulling me closer. I parted my lips, let his tongue in. The taste of coffee and something sweet—gum, he had been chewing gum. A detail that made me smile.
“I missed you,” he murmured between kisses. “So much.” I didn’t answer, instead pulling him onto me until we lay on the bed, tangled together.
The Foreplay
His hands wandered under my top. His fingers stroked my belly, then higher, until they touched the underside of my breasts. I let out a soft moan. He knew my body, knew exactly where to touch me. With his thumb, he brushed over my nipple, which hardened instantly. I bit my lip.
“You’re still as sensitive as back then,” he whispered. I laughed softly. “And you still talk just as much.” He grinned, then leaned down and took my nipple into his mouth. Through the thin silk, he sucked gently, circling his tongue. I buried my fingers in his hair, holding him tight. A shiver ran through me, pooling in my pelvis.
After a while, he sat up, pulled my top over my head, and unclasped my bra. The air in the room was cool on my skin, but his mouth was hot as he kissed each breast in turn. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the sensations. His tongue traced circles around my nipples, sometimes soft, sometimes firmer. I arched toward him.
“I want to feel you,” I said huskily. “All of you.” He stood, stripped off his sweater and shirt. His upper body was still lean and muscular, his chest covered with fine hair. I ran my fingers over it, feeling his skin tighten under my touch. Then I helped him open his pants. His cock pressed against the fabric of his boxers, a clear bulge. I pulled the boxers down, and he stood naked before me.
He was hard, I could see that. I took him in my hand, feeling the warmth and velvet hardness. He groaned as my fingers glided over the head. “Lena, if you keep that up, it’ll be over soon,” he warned. I smiled and let go. “Then let’s turn the tables. Lie down.”
He obeyed, lying on his back. I leaned over him, kissing his belly, his chest, his neck. Then I turned to his center. With my tongue, I circled the head, then took it fully into my mouth. He groaned, gripping my hair. I sucked rhythmically, letting my hand move along. His breath quickened, I felt him tense beneath me.
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