The door swings open, and his image rushes through me—no digital flicker, no buffering, but flesh and warmth. His smile is crooked, his hands empty, but his fingertips dig almost invisibly into his palms. I hear my own breath, shallow, rapid, and the soft click of the door falling into the lock. A moment of stillness, where the air between us vibrates.
“Hello,” I manage, my voice rough, as if I haven’t used it in a long time.
“Hello,” he replies, and in that single word pulses all the tension of the past months. I take a step toward him. He doesn’t grab me, doesn’t pull me close. Instead, his hand glides slowly onto my cheek, so gently, as if I were made of glass. But I’m not fragile. I’m a ball of pure desire, just waiting to explode.
His fingertips trace over my cheekbone, along the line of my jaw. I close my eyes, leaning into the touch. It feels like a promise. Then he takes my chin between thumb and forefinger, lifting it gently. When I open my eyes again, his face is close. His breath brushes my lips, warm, a little like coffee.
“I missed you so much,” he whispers, and then he kisses me.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a kiss that speaks of months of waiting, of a thousand messages that were never enough, of lonely nights when I imagined his hands on my skin. His lips are firm, demanding. He bites softly into my lower lip, sucks on it, and a moan escapes me. My hands find his neck, playing with the short hair there, as he deepens the kiss. His tongue meets mine, and it’s as if we recognize each other in a way no pixel ever achieved.
I feel his hands on my back, under my sweater. His fingers are cool on my hot skin, and I tremble. He pulls me tighter against him, and I feel how hard he already is. The pressure against my belly makes me even hungrier. I break away from his lips briefly, breathing heavily, and look at him. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
He takes my hand, and we walk down the narrow hallway. In my room, the bed lies unmade since this morning. The curtains are half-drawn, the light warm and flooding. He turns me toward him, and now finally he pulls my sweater over my head. I stand in my bra before him, and his gaze is like a touch that captures every nerve of my skin. He takes a step back, as if he needs to see me completely, to take me in.
“You’re even more beautiful than in the photos,” he says, his voice hoarse, full of reverence.
I wrap my arms around myself, not out of shame, but because the tension is unbearable. “Come here,” I say, and he does.
We kiss again, this time slower, more leisurely. His hands wander to my bra clasp, opening it with a practice that surprises me. The bra falls. He steps back again, looks at me, at my breasts reaching out to him. His fingers glide over my nipples, and I moan. They are hard, sensitive, and every touch sends a wave of heat through my body that gathers in my belly.
He leans forward, takes a nipple into his mouth, and I bury my fingers in his hair. His tongue circles the tip, sucking softly, then harder. I feel the moisture between my legs increasing, gathering and craving more. I press against him, wanting to feel him deeper.
He pulls away, gives that crooked smile, and kneels before me. His hands slide down my legs, pushing my jeans down. I step out of my shoes and pants, standing before him in only a thin pair of panties. He looks up at me, and in his eyes is a devotion that leaves me breathless.
His thumbs slide under the edge of the panties, pulling them slowly over my hips. I lift my hips, helping him, and then I’m naked before him. He takes a deep breath, as if wanting to inhale my scent, to absorb it. Then he leans forward, his lips touching the inside of my thigh, and I tremble.
His tongue traces a wet path upward, closer and closer to my center. My hands rest on his shoulders, I brace myself as he finally arrives there. The first contact of his tongue with me is a shock of bliss. I gasp, a sound from deep in my throat.
He licks me slowly, savoringly, as if he had all evening. His tongue circles my clitoris, dips into me, then out again. I hold my breath, then release it in bursts. My legs go weak, but I can’t sit down, don’t want to interrupt this. He drapes my legs over his shoulders, and I feel his fingers slide into me while his tongue continues working. Two fingers filling me, stretching me, finding exactly the spot that will throw me off balance. I moan loudly, forgetting that the neighbors might hear.
“Yes, right there,” I gasp, and he increases the pressure. His thumb rubs over my clitoris while his fingers massage me from inside. I feel the tension rising inside me, tightening, drawing closer. I bite my lip, but the moaning is unstoppable. It escapes me in long, deep tones as my body begins to tremble. The wave catches me, sweeps me away, and I scream his name. It’s a scream of release, forcing months of longing out of me.
I sink to my knees before him, breathless, my knees aching pleasantly on the carpet. He looks at me, triumphant and tender at once. I kiss him, tasting myself on his lips. My hands wander down his chest, opening his belt, his button. He helps me slip out of his pants, and then I see him. His cock, hard and ready, the tip slightly moist. I wrap my hand around it, feeling the warmth, the strength, the pulsing under the skin. He moans softly, a sound that arouses me even more.
I lean forward, take him into my mouth. He tastes salty, masculine, like him. I let my tongue circle the head, then suck deeply, taking him as far as I can. His hands bury themselves in my hair, but he doesn’t push, leaves me in control. I build a rhythm, fast, then slow, feeling him grow harder, his muscles tensing. His breaths become faster, irregular, a panting that drives me on.
“Don’t,” he says hoarsely, “I—”
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