I had looked forward to this moment so much that now that it was here, I felt like turning around and running away.
There he stood, at the end of the long escalator, among all the faces that were just passing through. His smile was wider than I knew from the video calls, and I couldn’t help but return it. Three months we had only flirted through screens, and now he was real — no pixels, no echo, just a man with a suitcase and a travel bag, looking at me as if I were the only woman in this brightly lit terminal.
I walked toward him, awkwardly, as if I had to learn how to move again. He dropped his luggage before I reached him and pulled me into his arms. He smelled of airplane cabin and fresh shirt, and I buried my face in his shoulder while his hands explored my back, as if to reassure himself that I was truly made of flesh and blood.
“Hey you,” he murmured into my hair.
I lifted my head, looked into his hazel-brown eyes, which I had so often caressed on my phone screen. “Hey yourself.”
His kiss was surprisingly gentle, almost hesitant. A test. A foretaste. I felt the tip of his tongue press against my lips, and I opened up, let him in. The kiss grew more demanding, and I forgot where we were until a hurrying passenger bumped into my shoulder. We pulled apart, blushing, and laughed.
“We should get out of here,” I said, and he nodded and picked up his luggage.
In the taxi, we held hands, our fingers intertwined as if we could make up for lost time. His thumb stroked the back of my hand, and I felt every touch all the way to my navel, where a hot knot tightened. The driver chatted about the weather, but I heard nothing, only the rush of my own blood, impatiently surging through my veins.
In my apartment
The door clicked shut, and suddenly there was silence. No background noise from the airport or traffic, only our breathing, which quickened as we looked at each other. The air between us crackled, heavy with unspoken words.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” I said, my voice thin, almost a whisper.
He stepped closer, dropped the suitcase, which landed with a dull thud on the parquet. “Believe it.”
His hands ran through my hair, gently tugging at the strands, and I tilted my head back, offering him my neck. He didn’t need to be asked twice. His lips traveled over my chin, my jawbone, and then he sucked at the sensitive spot below my ear. A shiver raced down my spine, and I moaned softly, grabbing his shirt and pulling him tighter against me.
We kissed, this time more hungrily, more impatiently. His tongue met mine, demanding, and I returned the pressure, let him set the rhythm. My hands found the hem of his shirt, slid underneath, and I felt the smooth warmth of his skin. He was firm, the muscles under my fingertips tensing as I stroked over his stomach. My pulse hammered in my throat.
“I want you,” he said, the words a hot breath against my mouth.
“Then take me.”
He tugged at my blouse, buttons flew, one popped off and rolled across the floor, but we didn’t care. I helped him free me from the fabric and stood before him in my black lace bra, my nipples already hard beneath the thin material. He stared at me, his gaze dark with desire, as if he wanted to devour me.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, and I felt the blush rise to my cheeks, but his gaze didn’t let me go.
He came toward me, his hands gripping my waist, and he kissed me again while pushing me backward toward the bedroom. I stumbled, laughed, and we landed in an embrace on my bed, which spread its arms as if it had only been waiting for us.
The foreplay
We lay on our sides, facing each other, and our hands began to speak a language of their own. His fingers wandered over my shoulder, my arm, down to my hip, while I stroked his face, felt the slight stubble on his cheek.
“I’ve imagined this so often,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “Holding you in my arms. Touching you.”
“And now?”
He didn’t answer, but leaned forward and took my nipple through the bra into his mouth. I gasped sharply as his tongue circled the hard bud, soaking the fabric. My hands gripped his hair, held him tight while he sucked on one side and simultaneously massaged the other with his hand. A sweet pain shot through me.
“More,” I whispered, and he obeyed, popped the bra clasp open and slid the straps off my shoulders. Now I lay naked before him, my breasts free and heavy, and he caught his breath as he looked at me. His pupils were dilated, almost black.
“I want to taste you,” he said, and before I could answer, he slid down my body, his lips leaving a trail of wet kisses on my collarbone, between my breasts, over my stomach. I trembled under his touch, every fiber of my body tense, waiting for more.
His hands spread my thighs, and I opened for him, let him gaze into my most intimate zone. I was already wet, slick with desire, and as he leaned forward, his breath warm on my sensitive skin, I flinched. And then — finally — I felt his tongue.
A cry escaped me as he made the first long, exploring stroke. He explored me like a blind man reading a landscape, with his tongue, with his lips, with the tip of his nose. I buried my hands in his hair, arched my back as he drove me insane. He was patient, almost torturously slow, and every time I was close to climax, he pulled back to tease me. My pelvis rose to meet him, begging for release.
“Please,” I whimpered, and he laughed softly, a deep vibration that I felt on my most sensitive spot. “Please, I can’t take it anymore.”
Then his mouth grew more demanding, his tongue circled my clit, sucked, and I felt the wave build, unstoppable. I screamed his name as the explosion tore through me, my body arching while he kept licking me until the last shudder faded.
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