After a Decade Apart

It's been ten years since I've seen you. And now I hear the wheels of your car crunch and spin as they climb the hill to my house. We've been back in contact with each other for weeks. Weeks of flirty texts and late night phone calls. Weeks of planning this weekend. And it's finally here and I am terrified.

I'm still wondering why you've driven nearly four hours to spend the weekend with me. Two pregnancies and a divorce later, I am nearly twice the woman you once knew. I feel like the years have been kinder to you.

Of course you've aged some: the shoulder length jet black hair has been trimmed to your collar and is graying now. Your face has lost some of the sharp angular planes, but your voice is the same mellifluous and seductive velvet that it was. And your hands, God, your hands. I remember watching them move over your bass guitar years ago and wishing they could play me. And tonight, tonight you've promised they will.

I step out onto the small front porch, I'm barely lit by the outside sconce. It is a warm night in late June, and the summer breeze smells sweet as it blows against my full length skirt. I showered barely an hour ago, but I'm already damp with anticipation. You've promised me a wild weekend, and I'm anxious to get past the first awkward moments.

I desperately want to be comfortable enough with you to enjoy the weekend as completely as possible, but still, a sense of trepidation pervades. The nascent thought still niggling in my head that you will not be attracted enough to me to deliver on your promises, and I will be left devastated and downtrodden.

You climb out of your car, and it hits me again, for only the second time in my life. That tidal wave of sheer sexual energy. It is confirmation that I didn't imagine it ten years ago. You smile, reach into your car and pull out your overnight bag. This suddenly seems too real. I'm wondering what I've done. It is too late to dash back in the house and lock the door.

You climb the few stairs up to me, stopping just shy of the top, and reach for my hand, simply looking into my eyes and say, "It is so good to see you again."

It is enough to break the ice, and I lean in to hug you hello. You fold me into your embrace and I feel the muscles in your back beneath my hands. You feel so good, so solid. I breathe deeply and inhale your earthy scent - you are just what I remember. I lean back to stare at you in disbelief. After ten years, how is this even possible? The chemistry is still there for me, but I am unsure if it is for you.

You pull me back to you to touch your lips to mine. It is intended to be a sweet and gentle kiss hello. But something clicks. Something so many years in the making and neither of us can hold back; we've both wanted this for too long. You drop your bag next to me as your lips and tongue begin a steady assault on my lips. I am helpless to do anything but hold on to you and surrender.

Your tongue slides past my open lips and now clashes with my own. You suck my lower lip in between yours and nibble gently. I realize that I am forgetting to breathe. I lean back just enough to expand my lungs and drag in a deep and ragged breath, still captive in your embrace. You move your lips to my neck and my head falls back to give you access. Your tongue and teeth are tasting and tantalizing their way up an invisible line on my neck. We're not even inside the house yet and I am so incredibly wet for you.

Finally, you stop long enough for me to catch my breath. You reach for the door and hold it for me as I lead you into my little house. It is small in both square footage and ceiling height. I'd warned you that at 5'2", I'd made design choices to suit me, not tall people, and that at 6'2", you should probably consider wearing a helmet for the weekend. Ignoring my advice, you follow me into the house and we are standing in my kitchen.

"Hungry?" you say huskily.

You'd told me that you wanted to cook me dinner when you arrived. I've spent weeks thinking of witty responses to you and they've all fled to the dusty corners of my mind. I just nod. I've still not said a word. I'm still just stunned that you're standing here in my home and you've put me under your spell so quickly. But cooking is actively sexy and I'm suddenly spurned into action.

"Yes." I hear myself respond, heading toward the refrigerator.

I reach in and pull out eggs, a critical element to the frittata you've planned. I move to the gas stove and bend down for a frying pan. I hear your unintelligible groan from behind me. I pop up quickly and glance over to make sure you're alright and I catch you staring at my more-than-ample rear, as your hand reaches down to adjust yourself.

In two strides your long legs put you squarely in front of me. I can see the bulge at the front of your pants clearly now, and as you start to kiss me again, I feel your hardness against my stomach. I pull back and set the frying pan on the stove, only so I can hop up onto the kitchen counter and kiss you on the same level. My legs seem to spread of their own volition and you move to stand between them.

Despite the layers of clothing, your cock is sending very clear signals to my clit.

I'm so close to coming right there on the kitchen counter and you sense it; you slide one hand around to my front, gently moving it over my breast, and I nearly lose it right then. Both of your palms are at the sides of my breasts. Your fingers take deliberate aim for a nipple now, and as you squeeze one through my bra, your tongue thrusts deeper and your hips grind into me.

One of your hands has found its way up my skirt and you've just discovered that I'm not wearing anything under it. You lean me back on the counter, and your fingers barely brush against my clit. It is more than I can take and it pushes me over the edge. My skin turns molten as my head falls back and I cry out as I shatter.

The orgasm starts to rip through me and your fingers are still moving, drawing it out. For the second time in twenty minutes, I can barely breathe. I sheepishly come back to earth and you're still holding me; now you're the one just staring.

I boldly look into your eyes and with as much bravado as I can muster I say, "I told you I was ready for you."