The hum of the restaurant faded away. The wine made my mind dance. I began romanticizing the relationship. I pushed all thoughts aside that had to do in any way with the difficulties. I wanted to remember her lounging in my bed, her smiling, her having leg quivering orgasms.
By the time she had returned from the bathroom, I had propped myself up against the headboard using a few pillows.
"Your little friend went away, sorry. He wanted coffee more than anything."
"Oh?" she said, smirking, "he'll return; he always does."
I moved by the cover and let her naked body slip in. Again, I was struck by how incredible she looked. Genetics blessed her with a fantastic metabolism. I would go to the gyms for hours, trying to keep myself fit. She'd eat a bowl of pasta and lose weight while doing it. She was a distant runner in high school and regularly ran marathons before moving to Paris. When we joked about this, she would say, "Yeah, but you're building your stamina up to satisfy me, not just to keep fit. You can fuck me all night without exhausting yourself!"
This always made me feel good. I knew it was true; I knew I was a good lover - no, a great lover. I never hooked up; I never flipped through dating apps and went out looking to score. This was not how I went about my love life. If I wanted to get off, I could do so with my hand. To me, I needed passion. I needed intimacy. After establishing that, I could fuck someone to the point of pure exhaustion and keep going all night.
"Do you like what you see?" she said, watching me staring at her as she climbed into bed.
"Looking at you is like admiring art."
She leaned over and pecked me on the lips.
We chatted about the upcoming events of the day. However, nothing significant was going on for either one of us. So we talked about everything else. We had been together almost a year, but there was still much to explore: music, literature, travel, etc.
I loved watching her sip coffee. It was adorable. The tiny sips were so cute. Leaning over, I started kissing her neck. She leaned into me, asking for it. I set my plate down on the small night table beside me.
"Babe," she said.
"Yes, belle," I replied, my words muffled, coming from the small of her neck. I was gently nibbling her and kissing her soft skin.
She giggled, having to move both her arms out of the way so she wouldn't accidentally spill her coffee that was precariously sitting atop a plate, as was the rest of her croissant.
"Babe," she said; her tone was more direct this time.
I looked up my lips now just above her right breast. The shift in her tone made me pause.
"I'm going to put my plate down, but I want to finish your amazing coffee."
"Okay," I said, not sure why she was telling me this.
"While I'm enjoying it, I want you to eat my pussy." She said this so directly, so demanding; it made my cock pulse with desire.
