Despite all the other changes in their lives, one thing was true for both of them: it had been a very long time since they had last seen each other. Long ago they had been lovers and friends, but things change, stuff happens, and they had moved on in different directions toward each one's happiness. While there was no question that they thought of each other often, especially in quiet solitary moments of reflection during sensual masturbation that resulted in more intense pleasure and heightened orgasms, they had no expectation of seeing each other again. They knew the whereabouts of each other, but they also knew how different their lives had become, how impossible it was now to have any of the relationship they had once known together.
She had wanted to believe the impossible, that a future that included him could happen, even tried to believe it despite having no evidence at all to support it. Finally, she had accepted, beyond all hope or thought or even fantasy, that she would never see him again. So she filed him away mentally in a sealed envelope, closed the imaginary file drawer, and closed the door forever on that relationship. No remnant of him remained on her computer or in her life other than in her memories, and even these she tried to squeeze to the back of her mind. She had succeeded at last at truly saying goodbye to him.
This is why she thought she was dreaming, or that someone was drunk and playing a game, anything other than that it was real when she saw his name in her inbox one day. Almost scared to open the message, it briefly indicated that he would be at a local coffee shop at a certain time. No invitation, nothing beyond that fact. Feeling incredibly stupid, gullible, and certain it was a joke, that he'd never show up, she went to the coffee shop early anyway, bought a small cup of foul-tasting coffee as rent for a table, then read a magazine. Looking at her watch too often, the minutes slowly ticked by, but soon the time had passed when he was to be there. She too-intently concentrated on her magazine to keep from constantly looking for him, even now hoping he was just a little late but increasingly believing he was somewhere laughing at her susceptibility. He arrived not very late, and once she saw him time no longer mattered.
It felt odd being so near this man again who could so easily drive her to sexual ecstasies, yet they were only chitchatting as old friends, old platonic friends, as if none of it had ever happened. They kept up the façade while asking about the specifics in each other's lives, and she tried to ignore his physical presence, the fact of him. She might have successfully played the game of "let's pretend we're not thinking about sex" had he not periodically touched her hand or her shoulder in empathy when she expressed some of the tougher things in her life. His touch made her respond, even though she fought it, and looking at his face, his smile, his talented mouth, made her quiver from desire. She couldn't remember fighting something so much in her life the way she strove with all her might not to think of him as her lover, to be happy just to see him, content that he didn't hate her or had begun to forget her. At one point the fact of his presence, especially that little knowing smile and slight flirting that he could not hide anymore, brought her nearly to orgasm while sitting in the café with her legs crossed under the table. She gripped the edges of the marble surface and hoped he didn't realize what was happening with her. She honestly was very happy for his new life, and she focused on that, the impossibility of it all for her, the conviction that it was all history between them, to regain her composure.
He never did miss anything with her. His ability to read her so vividly meant he had power to tease her and thrill her in so very many ways. His face remained calm but his eyes grew bright and sparkling with the thrill of the chase hunters know so well. Inside him somewhere was the realization that he had, whether looking for it or not, found his prey, and he knew exactly how to bring her down under his control. She tried not to look embarrassed and ashamed when she looked up at him; she was only able to relax when she saw in his smile that he was affected, flattered, perhaps aroused as well. He reminded her, unnecessarily, of all those times he had brought her to orgasm in public, without any significant touch. This time he merely said how beautiful it would be to see her climax again there in the café with him. His eyes bore through her resistance, triggering an orgasm that seemed to come from his will power more than her body, igniting her, causing her to tremble, pant, heat up, and squeeze her hands into fists in a violent effort to keep from rubbing herself, from calling out his name as she came silently, quickly, publicly.
His delight was evident in his face. He soon began to talk about how the rest of his day would go, indicating that he would be alone in a furnished, non-occupied apartment for a couple of hours. His details about this confused her; could he really be asking her to come over, to have another sensual adventure together? He said that if she was in the neighborhood to stop by, which seemed an obvious opportunity, but what if she was guessing incorrectly, if he was simply making polite talk? She told him her fears, concluding with the need to hear him say explicitly that it was an invitation, if indeed it was, which she mostly doubted. With only a moment's pause, he looked her steadily in the eyes and said with conviction, "It's an invitation."
She was stunned into breathless silence. They both had errands to run but would rendezvous an hour later. His intention was fairly clear, there was little doubt that he wanted to make love to her again, perhaps as a last fling before his final step of commitment to another. They parted with a quick hug, as platonic friends do, and drove to their separate errands.
