The question of how I had let myself be talked into this class reunion echoed inside me, while my feet ached in the heels that were far too high and the black dress I had bought specifically for this evening suddenly felt like armor, separating me from myself. I sipped my glass of champagne, letting the cold liquid glide over my tongue to kill time, as I studied the familiar but changed faces—each look a small postponement of what was to come.
Then I saw him. Simon. He was leaning against the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his fingers wrapped around the crystal as if it were a familiar weight. He was talking to a man I didn’t know, but his gaze brushed over me, lingered, and a smile spread across his face, slowly, like a wave making its way. I felt a flutter in my chest, a pull deep in my belly that I hadn’t felt in a long time—not for years, perhaps not since the time when we were young and everything seemed possible. Simon, the boy who had written me love letters in eleventh grade that I never answered because I was too shy, too insecure, too trapped in my own life. Now he stood here, grown up, in a suit that emphasized his shoulders, changed his posture, and I wondered if he knew how much I had longed for exactly this sight, without admitting it to myself.
A Kiss Under the Moon
“Lena, you look stunning,” he said as he stepped up to my table. His voice was deeper than before, smoky, with an undertone that made my skin tingle. “Thanks, Simon. You haven’t changed a bit,” I lied, and he laughed softly, a sound that reminded me of summer evenings and hidden glances. He had changed. He was taller, broader, and his eyes had lost some of that youthful naivety—they were now more watchful, probing, as if they registered every movement I made. We talked about old times, about our jobs, about life. I told him about my marriage without revealing too much, letting the words slide cautiously from my mouth like glass beads. He listened, nodded, and I saw in his eyes that familiar sparkle—the promise of something forbidden, something that would tear me out of my daily routine.
“Come on, let’s get some fresh air,” he suggested, and before I could think, we were outside on the terrace. The summer evening was warm, the air heavy with the scent of linden trees, sweet and intoxicating. He leaned next to me against the railing, and I felt his arm brush against mine—a light contact, but it burned like fire, a spark that could ignite an entire steppe. “Do you miss something?” he asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper. I knew what he meant. I missed that feeling of being desired, that tingle now coursing through me, hardening my nipples and making the skin under my dress sensitive. I missed the feeling of being alive, in this moment, where everything else faded away.
Without thinking, I turned to him, letting myself be driven by gravity and desire. His hand lay on my cheek, gentle, and then he kissed me. It was no tender kiss, no tentative exploration, but demanding, hungry, as if he had been waiting for this moment since he first saw me. I returned it, let myself fall, opened my lips to him. His tongue met mine, and I forgot where I was, forgot my husband, my home, my obligations. In that moment, only his mouth mattered, his hands gliding over my back, caressing the fabric of my dress as if they could penetrate it. I felt my body press against him, my hips arch toward him, and I knew I had no control anymore—and I didn’t want it either.
The Hotel Room
“We should get out of here,” he whispered, and I nodded, my mouth still on his, as if I couldn’t put my assent into words. We took a taxi, drove to a hotel downtown, the city lights streaming past us like liquid diamonds. On the way there, we didn’t speak a word. His hand lay on my thigh, under the hem of my dress, his fingers slightly curved, and I felt my skin burn under his fingertips, a damp desire spreading inside me. When we arrived in the room, he closed the door, the soft click of the lock a final sound. He turned to me, and we stood facing each other, breathless, the air between us charged with tension.
He unbuttoned his shirt, his fingers deft and steady, and I saw his chest, taut under the fabric, the light hair trailing over his nipples. I helped him with the buttons, let my fingers glide over his skin, felt the warmth, the firmness of his muscles. He was warm, solid, and I wanted more, wanted all of him. I let my hands wander lower, to his belt, and opened it with a movement I wouldn’t have expected from myself. He moaned softly as I touched him, and reached for my dress. With a single motion, he pulled down the zipper, and the dress fell to the floor, a black heap of fabric symbolizing my old life. I stood before him, clad only in black lace lingerie, and felt more naked than I had ever been—every fiber of my being open to his gaze.
He stepped closer, kissed my neck, my shoulders, let his lips wander lower, over my collarbone, down to my breasts. His hands cupped them while his mouth brushed over the top of my bra, and I threw my head back as his thumbs rubbed my nipples, hardening under his touch. A shiver of pleasure shot through me, and I buried my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. “I want you,” he breathed, his voice hoarse with desire, a tone that reached me deep inside.
The Union
He lifted me up as if I were weightless and laid me on the bed. The sheet was cool against my back, a brief shock, but immediately covered by his warmth. He kissed my belly, my hips, and then he pushed my panties aside, the lace a final barrier. His breath brushed my most intimate spot, and I clawed into the fabric of the sheet as his tongue touched me. I moaned loudly, a sound rising from the depths of my throat. He was skilled, demanding, every movement precise, as if he knew my body before I knew it myself. I felt a wave
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