While Waiting

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I knew when I saw him it would be hard to say no. These long years later, I still can’t refuse. Any minute now, he will be walking through the door of this dark bar, and any willpower I may have had will evaporate. I will feel the tingle in my legs, the pit of my stomach will drop into my twat, and all I will be able to focus on is the subtle sway of his hips as he walks toward my table. His voice will be in my head before he speaks.

“Hi.” The simple word caresses my cheek, then slips into my ear like his tongue has done so many times before. My breath quickens to match my pounding heart. I can feel my pulse in my clit, measuring the moments until he’s behind me. He will sweep my hair to one side and kiss my neck, softly, gently, behind my ear. My head will roll, away, around, and my lips will find his.

“Hi,” I will answer, my lips still touching his, feeling the smile that lurks behind his kiss. Swiveling in my chair to face him, my legs parting, my thighs surround him as he steps into my leggy embrace. I can feel the heat and hardness of him pressed into my pelvic cradle.

I want to have him for lunch, to feast on his skin and savor his groans. He is my favorite thing to eat, and he knows. He knows my most secret desires, has paged through my mind like a scholar, bahçelievler escort intent on discovery. He is my scientist, unafraid of experimentation, chemical reactions, and the unexpected explosion. He knows how to keep me on a low flame, at a slow simmer for hours.

“I’ve missed you,” his whisper slides underneath the din. If he slid his hand inside my panties, he would know how much I missed him, too. Pressing him closer to me, I feel his arousal. He is happy to see me.

If you asked him, he would tell you I smell like vanilla and taste like honey. Redheads are, after all, the sweetest, juiciest peaches. A hedonistic delight for the senses.

“I’ve missed you, too,” and I’ll lift my face to accept another kiss, this one deep and slow. We have been apart for too long, as is always the case with us. I revel in the way he holds my face in his hands as he plunders my mouth. We are shameless, anonymous. Just another couple in the crowded bar. But unlike them, he is my Happy Hour — my Tuesday night special between 4 and 7 p.m.

“Let’s get out of here,” he’ll suggest. My hand in his, I will follow him, weaving through the people who won’t remember us, anticipating the time when I will free him from his shirt and jeans and reclaim balgat escort his body with my mouth and hands.

Needing him, I will drive us to a secluded spot, our spot. An old blanket is our only nod to comfort. We are too old for a bed of leaves and kneeling on sticks. I can be out of my clothes faster than he can, but there is an element of fun in having his help, pushing down my jeans and untangling me from my sweater. I enjoy seeing the glow of satisfaction on his face when I release my breasts from their satin and lace confinement to greet the cool night air.

You’d have to look closely to see our wedding rings don’t match. But you’d be distracted by the sight of my lips, swollen and glistening from kissing him in the car, closing in on the plump head of his cock before the scene disappears behind a curtain of auburn hair. You would hear his sharp intake of breath, the trembling sigh, and the moan of a man with his dick being devoured by a very talented, hungry woman.

I can hardly wait to feel his tongue on my clit, his fingers strumming me from the inside out. It is his turn to feast on me, to reacquaint himself with the center of my desire. He is a master of his craft, knowing just how close to edge I can go before he backs off and begins ankara escort again. My pleas for mercy are met with a wink and a smile as he peeks over my mound in the moonlight. The murmured refusal for clemency against my clit is pure torture, and he knows.

When I believe I will die if I don’t find release, when I am begging him to fill me, he will kiss a slow, soft path up my body, along the shadows dancing on my skin, his fingers continuing to pluck a timeless tune. My legs spread wide of their own accord, wrapping around him as he settles into his rightful place. He is rock hard and leaking in my hand as I guide him to me. There is no hesitation when finally, thankfully, he begins his carefully timed entrance.

“Welcome home,” I whisper, when he cannot possibly go in any farther. I am stretched and full, and yet I know I will take more. He will continue to swell and expand, and I with him. It is up to me to accommodate him, and I will. And he knows.

He starts to move, and I answer each thrust. We meet and retreat in a staccato rhythm. I cannot look anywhere but his amber eyes. Without this anchor, I would be lost, adrift in a dark ocean of pleasure. When he pins my arms above my head and kisses me hard, I cannot help it. I cum, squeezing him so tightly he cannot move inside me. He pulses, squirts, spurts, and I feel our wetness squeezing out around him as he pushes in one last time.

Here he comes. He has searched for me and found me, in this dark corner of the city. I am his, and he knows.

© 2007 Bedtime Storyteller / Satin Sheets Stories

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