What if he doesn’t come? I banish the thought immediately as I stand on the airport parking lot, waiting for his taxi. Three months we had only seen each other through screens, chased our voices through phone lines, described our bodies in text messages—every syllable a promise, every image a torment. Now he was supposed to be here for real. My heart pounds so loudly that I barely hear the roar of departing planes; it thumps against my ribs like a trapped bird screaming for freedom.
The First Time—For Real
Then I see him. He steps out of a yellow taxi, a backpack over his shoulder, scanning the parking lot. His eyes find me, and a smile breaks through—the same smile I’ve seen in so many video calls, but now it’s real, three-dimensional, and I feel dizzy. The world around me blurs into a haze of lights and engine noise; only he is sharp, only he matters. He walks toward me, and I stand rooted to the spot, my breath catching in my chest. When he stands before me, I hesitate for a second—then I embrace him. His body feels different than on the screen: warmer, firmer, with a slight smell of airplane cabin and his own scent, which I didn’t know yet but now envelops me like a second skin. I close my eyes and breathe him in, let the moment wash over me—the tension of the last weeks melts away, replaced by a wave of pure, unfiltered presence. His arms close tightly around me, and I feel the tension release, how my body nestles into his embrace as if it had belonged right here, all this time.
The Tension Breaks
“Hey,” he whispers in my ear. His voice sounds deeper than in my memory, rougher, and a shiver runs down my back, raising the hairs on my neck. His hand settles on my back, and through the thin fabric of my dress, I feel the heat of his fingers, they burn through the cloth into my skin. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, smell the aftershave he’s used for years, mixed with the metallic scent of jet fuel and a hint of sweat—this scent that shoots through my marrow. “Hey,” I breathe back, my voice barely more than a whisper, a trembling murmur. We pull apart, look at each other, and then he kisses me. It’s not a gentle kiss—it’s a hungry, demanding kiss that carries all the weeks of waiting within it. His lips are soft, but the pressure is firm, as if he wants to devour me, erase me and create me anew. His tongue enters my mouth, and I taste coffee and something sweet—gum perhaps—and the pure taste of him, which I missed so much. My hands slide into his hair, which feels exactly as I imagined: soft, but with a slight resistance that makes my fingers tingle. I pull him closer, press against him, and feel how his body responds to mine—the hard contour of his chest against my breasts, the pressure of his hips pushing me against the cool evening air. When we separate, we’re both breathless, and I see the desire in his eyes, deep and dark, an ocean I want to dive into.
The Drive to My Place
“Let’s go,” I say, and he nods without taking his eyes off me. In the car, we sit side by side, my hand on his thigh, his fingers playing with mine. I feel the warmth of his body through the denim of his jeans, the muscles beneath that tense under my touch, and my breathing quickens. The drive to my apartment feels endless—every traffic light an eternity, every turn a new round of anticipation. I tell him about work, he tells me about his flight, but our words are secondary, empty shells for what’s really simmering between us. What matters is the tension that grows between us as we get closer. His hand moves higher, slides under the hem of my dress, and I open my legs slightly to give him more room. His fingers stroke the inside of my thigh, the skin there so sensitive that every touch sends an electric jolt through my body. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, but a soft gasp escapes me anyway. He glances at me, a half-smile on his lips, and I know he’s doing exactly this to drive me crazy—and it’s working. My panties get wet, my pelvis presses unconsciously against his hand, and I feel the heat growing between my thighs, a glowing lava that craves him.
In My Apartment—The Door Clicks Shut
Barely through the door, I turn around and kiss him again, this time wilder, more impetuous, with an urgency that tolerates no more seconds of waiting. He presses me against the wall, his hands wander under my dress and push it up. I feel his fingers on my thigh, higher, higher, until they reach the edge of my panties. He strokes over them, not yet under, and I press against his hand, a silent plea. “I want you,” I pant between two kisses, the words hot and hoarse. “Now.” He laughs softly—a sound I love so much, deep and throaty, vibrating in his chest—and lifts me up. I wrap my legs around his hips, feel his hardness through the fabric of his pants, and he carries me into the bedroom without breaking the kiss. We fall onto the bed, a tangle of arms and legs, and I feel his weight on me, making me feel safe and desired. The mattress bounces under us, and the world shrinks to the size of this bed, to the heat of his skin.
Finally—Skin on Skin
He pulls my dress over my head, and I help him out of his shirt, my fingers trembling at the buttons, impatient, almost tearing. His chest is warm under my hands, his heart beats fast, and I can feel the muscles beneath the skin tensing and relaxing. I kiss his neck, his shoulders, lick the salty sweat from his skin while he unclasps my bra and slides it off my shoulders. When his lips surround my breast, a moan escapes me, deep from my throat, a sound that comes from my belly and makes the air around us tremble. His mouth is hot, his tongue circles my nipple, first gently, then more demandingly, and I bury my fingers in his hair and press him tighter against me, want to feel him inside me, so close. “Yes,” I whisper, “please.” He switches to the other side, and I feel the arousal building inside me, how my body writhes beneath him, like an electric shock through every fiber of my being.
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