Coffeehouse

I had seen him at the coffee shop for weeks now. We had gotten to that friendly-smile-and-nod stage when we passed each other at the counter. He was interesting looking -- much taller than my 5-foot height, honey-brown hair, beard and mustache well trimmed and neat, and eyes that could change color like the North Sea. Which was apropos, since he ordered his coffee with a delightful, vaguely Northern European accent.

I was curled up in one of the big chairs, a good book open on my lap and a tall cup of mocha latte precariously balanced on the chair arm. I heard his melodic voice ordering his usual cup of coffee and glanced up from my book. He turned his head and our eyes met. We both smiled and started the friendly nod, but then the gaze held a heartbeat longer than normal. It held long enough for my hand that was holding the book open to tremble slightly as a small sizzle of energy made its way back and forth from our eyes.

quickly dropped my gaze back down to my book and grabbed my coffee cup that was teetering from the sudden movement. Taking a deep gulp of the warm, thick latte I steadied myself and then slipped into a mini-daydream and again tried to figure out where that accent came from. I'm a student of languages; they have always fascinated me and I have made it a hobby to train my ear to accents and dialects. So, besides being interesting-looking, the coffee shop man posed a mystery that I intended to solve. I just wished I could hear him speak more than just a coffee order.

My wish was granted.

"Would you mind if I sat here?" He was standing in front of me, indicating the chair across the low table from me. I smiled up at him and made the proper and polite responses to let him know it was okay. He sat down, put his cup on the table in front of him and then leaned forward with hand outstretched.

"My name is Peter." I extended my hand and was pleased that he took it firmly and shook it once, then let go. So many men think it is debonair, when shaking a woman's hand, to take it with his palm up as if he was about to kiss the back of hers. In actuality, there are very few men who can pull that move off...for the rest of the male species, a simple sideways handshake shows respect and won't get him thrown into the lounge-lizard pile quite as quickly.

"My name's Kate, I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance." I replied, throwing all my demure, Southern courtesy at him all at once. I wanted to see how he fielded that particular curve-ball, batting eyelashes and all. His only response was a slowly widening smile and relaxing back into his chair.

The conversation started lightly. A question here, a question there, back and forth across the table. We could have been batting a shuttlecock across a badminton net....we could have been playing chess. I asked what he did for a living; he answered that he was a financial consultant for an investment group. I made all the proper impressed noises and sipped my coffee. He asked what I did for a living; I answered that I was currently in the market for a job and used the coffee house as a refuge from faxing resumes and going on job interviews. He made all the proper consoling noises and we talked for a bit about the growing recession.

Finally, I thought I had the answer to my mystery.

"Forgive me for being forward, but are you from South Africa?" I asked, trying to keep my inner sense of triumph from showing.

"No, not South Africa. I'm from the Netherlands, right outside of Amsterdam."

I had guessed wrong. My cheeks turned pink with embarrassment at both my audacity at asking such a personal question and my ignorance at the accent. Peter took pity on me and said that it was a common mistake, since Afrikaans comes from Dutch.

He smiled again, his lips wickedly framed by his beard, and said, "I do not need to ask where you are from. Your voice brings to mind magnolia blossoms in the moonlight." My cheeks went pink again, this time from surprised delight at the unexpected compliment.

"Well thank you. I hadn't heard that Dutch men were given to such poetic images." I took another sip of coffee and wished that smoking was allowed in the coffee house. A cigarette would draw attention away from my suddenly shaking hands.

Our eyes locked again, and my brain took over to imagine what he was seeing as he looked at me. Jaw-length auburn hair with a few threads of silver showing, big dark brown eyes, rosy cheeks against a Celtic creamy complexion as he looked at my face. If he looked further down, he'd see a short, middle-aged woman's body with curves a little too large to be culturally pretty. Former lovers had called me "rubenesque", and one kind soul had said I had a body just like the old fertility goddesses. But none of that seemed to matter as the slanting afternoon sunlight sparkled in his eyes and cast interesting shadows across his well-defined cheekbones and strong jaw. I dropped all my self-consciousness and basked in his attention.

The conversation meandered down the avenues of polite chit-chat. Two people finding out about each other and enjoying the discovery. The talk turned to literature, and I was pleasantly surprised to find out that he and I shared a guilty pleasure for the old gothic horror writers.

I recently acquired a first-edition, signed copy of The Dunwich Horror." My eyes widened in delight as he told me about his search for this particular book. I leaned forward eagerly as I hung on his every word. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm broke the tenuous hold on gravity that my coffee cup, still perched on the arm of my chair, had. I jumped up with a squeal as my lap was drenched in sticky, luke-warm latte.

Peter reached over and grabbed a handful of napkins and helped me mop up the worst of the mess, but my skirt and most of my sweater was a lost cause. I sighed in chagrin as I contemplated the damp, sticky, long walk home. "I live a block away. Would you like to come with me? We can wash your clothes and you could get to look at my book collection." His eyes gazed into mine with a soft glow of invitation. I gulped as my heart skittered a beat or two with sudden anticipation. I nodded acceptance and he escorted me out of the coffee house, his palm warm against the small of my back as he opened the door for me.

Peter and I walked the short block to a small row of condominiums tucked behind a grove of huge magnolia trees. He unlocked his front door and ushered me inside; I was immediately struck by how light and airy the interior was. He gave me a brief tour and I was pleasantly surprised by the clean lines and balance of his decorating.

The living room was lined with bookcases, filled with all kinds of literature. His collection held the place of honor inside an old-fashioned legal bookcase, complete with glass-faced doors. He left me to browse to my heart's content as he went upstairs to get some clothes for me to wear while my skirt and sweater were being cleaned.

I had pulled out a copy of one of H.G. Wells' novels and was goggling at the print date when Peter came back down and handed me a large t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants. "These are the only things I have that wouldn't fall right off you. I hope it will suit." He smiled and indicated the downstairs powder room where I could change clothes. "Come join me in the kitchen when you're through, and I'll make us some more coffee."

I hurriedly got out of my sticky clothes and put on the soft shirt and pants. I had to roll the pants up at the legs so that I wouldn't trip, then contemplated the low heels I had been wearing. They went well with the skirt, but with pajama pants they looked ridiculous. I picked them up with the rest of my clothes and padded barefoot out to the kitchen.

Peter turned as I walked into the kitchen, taking in my appearance in a glance. A smile hovered on his lips as he looked down and saw my bare toes peeking out beneath the rolled-up pajama pants. "You look comfortable." He paused, his gaze sweeping up over the t-shirt to my face. "It suits you."

He took my skirt and sweater and disappeared into the laundry room. Lured by the smell of coffee, I wandered over to the kitchen counter and poured a mug full. I had just started looking around for the sugar and cream when a warm hand touched my bare arm. Startled, I shrieked and turned around; too quickly I suppose, as the coffee sloshed over my shirt for the second time in one day. I looked up into Peter's face as he tried to contain his laughter. My cheeks flamed crimson and at that moment I would have happily crawled under a rock. "I'm not usually this clumsy, I promise. Don't worry about another t-shirt, I'll just mop this up and..." My voice trailed off as my eyes locked with his. His hand came up to brush my cheek with gentle fingertips as his gaze focused on my lips. He's going to kiss me, I thought. A trickle of warmth rolled through me.

Peter moved to within inches of me. I could feel the warmth of his body. He stood there, looking at me with those remarkable eyes, and I could see desire in them. I suddenly realized that he was waiting for a sign from me that it was okay, that I wanted him to kiss me. I took the last half-step towards him and put my hand up on his shoulder, and smiled.

His hand came up to gently hold the back of my head as he pulled me in to him. His lips were soft and warm, brushing back and forth across mine. His beard tickled my face lightly as he explored my lips with his. He was tender but confident in his kisses, and I could feel myself responding with a slowly growing warmth. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let my body slowly melt against his. He brought his arms down around my waist, pulling me in to him and almost bending me backwards as I clung to him in the sudden swell of passion that flared between us. He pulled away slightly and when I saw the focused look of lust in his eyes I gave an involuntary shiver. I opened my mouth to try to say something witty but my words were cut off by his sudden movement.

He scooped me up and effortlessly slung me over his shoulder. I was flabbergasted; never in my many years had anyone ever done that to me. I gave a delighted laugh then shrieked as Peter playfully gave my bottom a light slap before starting a slow lope out to the living room and up the stairs. I hung on for dear life as he took the stairs two at a time, bellowing some primitive-sounding song in Dutch. I was breathless with laughter and passion as he burst through his bedroom door and carefully deposited me in the middle of his bed. I had a split second to revel in the delicious softness of his down-filled comforter as I sunk down into it, before he pounced on top of me and covered my body with his.

He propped himself on his forearms and smoothed the hair out of my face, his beautiful eyes changing from grey to green and darkening as he slowly leaned down to kiss me again. Long, languorous kisses that deepened as my lips opened for his tongue. I was spiraling down into lust; my whole body became one big nerve ending. I felt every little shift of our bodies, and every whisper of our clothes as each article magically disappeared echoed in my ears.

Finally there was nothing separating our bare flesh from each other, and time stood still as his big, warm hand slowly drifted down to cup my breast. A flick of his thumb across the hard nipple and I let out a low moan of need as my whole body tightened. I arched back as his lips traced a path down across my cheek, down over my neck and chest, and then his lips wrapped around that aching tip and enveloped it in warmth. Peter suckled gently, his hand cupping my other breast and making a light sheen of sweat break out on my forehead with the swirls of warmth he was creating inside me.

He kissed down over my belly, and my over-stimulated nerve endings screamed as his beard ran across my very ticklish midsection. I couldn't help it; I let out a loud giggle and writhed violently. I heard a low chuckle.

"Ticklish are you?" His voice had gotten deeper and huskier with passion, and I wriggled again as his beard continued to rub and caress across my belly.

"Oh god, don't do that..." I was helplessly giggling by now as he kept up a steady stroking with his beard, occasionally planting tiny kisses along my ribs. I reached down to push at his head to get him to move and my wrists were each gently but firmly captured in his big hands. "No my dear, I'm having too much fun...just relax and enjoy..." Even the breath as Peter spoke blowing across my skin tickled my over-sensitive nerves. I was helpless, giggling and shrieking as he tickled me. My hips bucked involuntarily as I lost control of my actions; the longer the tickling went on the more delirious I became.

A sudden movement, and Peter's mouth was covering my pussy. He pressed the flat of his tongue against my lips and held it there as I instantly switched from helpless with laughter to helpless with passion. My essence flowed out of me as he massaged my whole pussy with his tongue and my body opened to him completely as I had a fast, shattering orgasm.

I lay there stunned and still as Peter raised up and again covered my body with his. He kissed me, his tongue sharing my taste with me as his hips and legs nudged mine further apart. I could feel him, hard and ready, pressing against my opening for a split second before he slid himself into me. He rested there as he gathered me up in his arms and held me tightly against him. Then he started to rock slowly, touching every inch of me inside and out.

My breath caught in my throat as I kissed him, grabbing the back of his head and wrapping my legs around him. Our bodies were floating on warm waves of passion as we moved with each other. Each swell of feeling sent us both higher and higher, rising on a tidalwave of ecstasy that was swiftly riding to shore. His soft groans mingled with my cries as first my body then his froze and then crested, crashing against each other's orgasm. As our breathing returned to normal and the seas of lust receded, he smiled down at me, wiping a trickle of sweat from my cheek. Another soft kiss and he rolled to the side, pulling me into the crook of his arm.

No words were needed, even if I could think straight at that moment. We were both content to rest in the eye of the storm.