Keys out of the ignition. A deep breath. A quietly whispered recommitment and solemn vow that nothing, absolutely nothing would happen between us now that I was here.
8 hours of nonstop driving had left the bonnet of the car scorching to the touch. Had there been real horses under the hood, they’d be frothing at the mouth, driven relentlessly by the desire I denied residing in the space above my belly and between my legs.
Dial the number like you said you would.
“Hey! I’m outside of the gate.”
“You made good time! I’ll come out and get you now.”
The car door opens, feet touch the ground and knees buckle. Get a grip.
Back and breast at attention at the sight of him. God, he’s perfect. And except for a few flecks of grey in his beard, he hasn’t changed at all. He embraces me and I entwine myself around him. I can feel him smiling into my hair. Raindrops begin to splatter on the sidewalk.
“Come on inside.”
I follow him quickly, convincing myself that it’s the rain I’m running from and nothing else that I’m running in to.
“Your place is nice,” I say. I hope I sound casual. His place really isn’t nice at all.
“Thanks. It’s not much. It’s got a fridge…TV of course…a bed.”
My mouth does something between a grimace and a grin at the mention of the word “bed”.
“How was the drive up?”
“Terrifying. I hate driving in the city. The roads are too narrow and the other drivers are so aggressive.” All of this was true. “Feel my heart. It’s still racing!”
A hand that does not belong to me finds itself in the space between my breasts and presses into it. Another joins it and together they roam the expanse of my bosom. I don’t have the chance to react before my Neapolitan fantasy – pink and light brown lips shielding two rows of ivory – has made contact with neck, my chin, my mouth…
“Let me see them.”
I nod. Hands expertly remove my brassiere. Taut nipples thrust their way upward, waiting. Their petulance rewarded with eager flicks of the tongue, disappearing and reappearing from view and into the tenderness of his mouth. I release the bulge straining against his trousers and submit it to the same fate. His knees’ turn to relinquish strength.
He pulls me to my feet and entreats me for a kiss. Finally, when our mouths have spoken no words but communicated all we want to say, I ask him, “Is it enough?”
There is rueful laughter.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Don’t make me choose. Please don’t make me choose. You know what I want.”
He is kind. He won’t force me to choose.
But the choice wasn’t up to either of us. The Universe, the fates and the fairies had already determined what was to be.
I lay beneath him, naked, assuring… yes, I want this.
He enters me slowly and then stops, drawing back. Something has surprised him. I am immediately self-conscious. I turn away and look at the wall, suppressing shame for what, I don’t know. It feels like an age before he speaks.
“You’re so wet. Jesus. Why are you so wet?”
“Is it a problem?”
“No! It’s a luxury…”
I’m wet because being with him is not fucking. It’s not “getting dick”. It’s not even making love. Together, we create a world – a supernatural arena – in the centimeter that exists between the small of our bellies. We are the only residents in it. I’m wet because it’s a cosmic reaction to his being, to his presence. My body surrenders itself fully to him. I no longer belong to myself. Clitoris – generally sequestered and modest in its appearance – engorged, enlarged and now exposed. Nipples that should be invisible behind a sturdy wall of cotton padding erupt like tree shoots in Spring, and a spring gurgles and bursts within me, through me and out of me. I am wet because I love him in ways I cannot define and he loves me in ways he cannot articulate. After all, who has yet been able to make intelligible all of the mysteries of the Universe?
But all of this is too tedious, too lengthy to explain; so I shrug and nuzzle my face into his neck and hope my reply is enough.
“I dunno. I guess I’m just turned on.”