Reignited Flame Pt 01

Disclaimer: this is a revised version of a story submitted last year, so may be familiar to some. It has been improved, and will be expanded.

Chapter One

Tom

It's never a good thing when you find yourself hitting your village pub alone at 8 PM on a Friday night. Just the fact of being there can make the back of your neck tingle a little with embarrassment, as you walk through the crush of bodies, occasionally nodding to people you know from around the village, trying not to look too much like a bloke who's staring down the barrel of turning forty, still single, with nothing better to do than pop into The King's Head for a quiet drink all by himself.

But the alternative was to potter around my house, streaming movies I'd already seen a few dozen times; drinking coffee that would then keep me wide awake for most of the night, leaving me powerless to stop myself from staring at my bedroom ceiling, wishing I wasn't in a half-empty bed, trying to cling on to the fast-fading memories of times I shared that bed with Jessica, the last woman I'd been with; my last girlfriend... who left me more than five years ago.

Most days, I did a pretty good job of not dwelling on how long it'd been since I'd last had sex. An upturn in the housing market the last couple years had building contractors like me pretty busy most of the time; busy enough that, during daylight hours, my mind rarely wandered over to memories of Jessica — or worse, the woman I could still hardly bear to think about...

My very first girlfriend. Dawn.

But there were always the lonely nights. Lonely nights in a half-empty bed, with nothing to do except think about who I wished might have been there. A warm, feminine form for me to reach out to, pull into me; a hand to clutch at mine as hips gently ground against me, bodies adjusting to find the right grooves in each other, and the bed, where we would lay in the night, relaxed and content. Safe and secure. For the first year or so after Jessica had left me, the memories of her had been so strong, I could almost physically

feel

her against me, could smell her scent, and hear her shallow breaths, while I'd

dwell

on replays of some of our better times together.

But eventually, this had stopped working for me. It wasn't just that the memories of Jessica had faded as time went by, my skin no longer able to summon the echo of her touch, my mouth failing to conjure the memory of her taste, resulting in significantly less powerful orgasms, that had barely felt worth my time and effort. No — once I passed the three-year-mark of being single, getting myself off had started to feel somehow

sad

. Not even the rare, surprise powerful orgasm brought a bliss strong enough to fend off the strange, creeping sense of defeat that would attack me almost immediately afterwards. The sneering voice in my head reminding me, I was by myself. I had no one with whom to be intimate. How pathetic that my "sex life" consisted of staying at home, touching myself to memories of the ex-girlfriend I could bear to remember, while trying to close my mind off to the one that I could

not

. To remember Dawn was to give myself the powerful orgasms I was otherwise missing; was to make myself not just gasp, but moan and cry out, growl her name into my pillow as a torrent exploded from me so powerfully I felt barely able to hold onto my own cock. Afterwards, it was not defeat that would charge in and attack me, but grief. I missed Dawn so much. Had always missed her, even during my relationship with Jessica. Of course I missed her — Dawn was my secondary school girlfriend, my first, and I would have been more than happy if she had been my "only."

But that wasn't how life had worked out. After secondary school had come sixth form; after sixth form, she had gone to university in London, while I stayed in our home village in Kent, an hour's train ride away, apprenticing to my dad. We'd spent less and less time together; and when, after graduating, she stayed in London for work, the "drifting apart" was inevitable. It didn't matter that I loved her so much, I could get tearful just thinking about her. It's impossible to have a functioning relationship when you live so far apart, and we were broken up before we turned twenty-five. Two years after that, my dad retired early and left me the business. It crossed my mind at the time to reach out to Dawn and ask what she thought about maybe coming home to Kent, to see if we could give it another go. But by then, she was engaged to a guy she'd met at university. (Last I heard, they had at least two kids, and she was an editorial director at a publishing company in the capital.)

After another six months of singledom (reaching three-and-a-half years by now), I had begun abstaining from masturbation, and now only indulged when I

absolutely had to

— when the ache, the sense of fullness, in my groin became too uncomfortable. But even at those times, my pursuit of relief was not a sensual act — no, I would get the job done as quickly and as quietly as possible, and then immediately seek something to distract myself from the feelings of sadness as they made to swarm me again.

And now, on this Friday night, I was getting the feeling that I'd be taking care of myself when I got home. It'd been nearly four weeks since I'd last indulged (my record was five) but now that I was thinking about Dawn, the flickering memories of times we'd been together, it felt inevitable that I'd succumb to the urge that I was beginning to feel building.

Then I reached the bar, casting a glance left and right to get a handle on who was where in the informal queue. And that's when I saw a familiar shape, that I recognised even though she had her back to me. A shape I would have recognised anywhere. A woman, barely five-feet tall, in a simple jeans-and-jumper ensemble; her dark brown hair tied in a tight, long ponytail that tumbled down her back like a waterfall, drawing attention to an hourglass figure that I could tell had been softened, just a little, by age.

Dawn.

Dawn

Somehow, I knew Tom was there. I could feel him. I've always been able to feel his presence, ever since we were teenagers. It was my body that tipped me off — a gentle prickling at the back of my neck; a tightening of my chest; a slight shiver as the ghost of his touch from almost fifteen years ago ran along the skin of my arms, my shoulders, my neck. And even though I knew I was just imagining it, that I

had

to be just imagining it, I began to smell his scent as if he was leaning over me, the way I remembered him doing (and had remembered regularly over the years, even during my marriage). That strong, warm, masculine scent that I remembered so well I had to close my eyes and shake my head clear of the memories that flickered on the movie screen in my mind — or else, I might have just stood there at the bar in a trance, my breathing becoming increasingly shallow, as a heat rose in my cheeks, and in other parts of me...

Before I'd even turned around to confirm my suspicions that he was there, I knew there was a good chance I'd soon be texting my sister, Hayley, to let her know that I'd be arriving at her house later than planned, and that she maybe shouldn't wait up for me. I would leave out, for now, the fact that it was because I'd run into Tom. Hayley wouldn't be pleased to know that I was having anything to do with a guy I broke up with well over a decade ago. A break-up that was so devastating, both me and my sister feared I would never recover.

It was an entirely different break-up that had brought me to my hometown in Kent, to my sister's house, that night. I was fleeing London after the break-up of my ten-year marriage. Nothing dramatic, really — there had been no adultery, no abuse. Not even any really serious arguments. Boredom, and incompatibility, had led me and Mark to deciding to call it quits rather than go back to counselling for the sake of our two young daughters. I wasn't looking forward to all the faff that would have to be dealt with — custody of the girls, division of assets and possessions — but that was for later. This weekend, I'd just wanted to have some time to myself, and Mark had been good enough to say he'd have the girls all weekend while I went home to either sleep or cry (maybe both) on my sister's settee. So I'd packed a small overnight bag, kissed the kids, stopped myself from instinctively, automatically kissing my soon-to-be-ex-husband, and caught a train, watching the London skyline fade into the late winter night. I would be returning soon, I knew — London was where my life was. My career, my two girls — I could not take them with me, and I didn't want to. But at that moment, I felt a relief to be leaving it behind, just for a night or two.

When I got off the train at the village station, something stopped me from walking to the minicab office around the corner. Something had led me to The King's Head pub a ten-minute walk away. And it was as the shivers kept travelling up my skin, breaking out in little goose bumps as if his fingertips, his lips, were lightly grazing me the way they once did, that I started to suspect I had known, or at least been hoping, this very thing would happen.

I took a deep breath and turned around. My gaze locked on to his without my having to search for him amid the crowd at the bar, because we had always just seemed to

find

each other, no matter where we were — instantly, I was plunged into his rich brown eyes set deep into sharp, sculpted features. I couldn't remember how many years it had been since I'd last seen him, but those sharp and sculpted features were still present and correct, as was his height (six-foot-one) and his wide, muscular frame, maintained by the building work that had kept him here in the village, rather than follow me to London. The only differences, really, were the occasional line traced in his lightly tanned face, and a tinge of grey in his wavy, dark hair. Tom had aged, just as I had, but every sign of it seemed to me not an imperfection, but a signpost on the road his life had taken since last I saw him. A life that I had mostly missed, and the thought made my heart clench in my chest, filling me with an urge to barge past the other drinkers, jump into Tom's arms, wrap my legs around his waist and sob into his neck how sorry I was to have missed so many years with him.

When he took a step towards me, I thought I might hyperventilate. When he smiled at me, and those sharp cheekbones lifted as if to hug those deep brown eyes, I thought I might literally pass out.

"Dawn..." My name on his lips always sounded somehow different than usual. Like he had found some way of saying it that gave it a new meaning, that was all his own. "What... what are you doing back? Everything OK with the family, your sister...?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine." I was waving a hand to chase away his concerns and felt like I would need to use my

other

hand to pull it back, or else I'd be reaching out for him. And I didn't think we were there yet. "I'm just..." I felt a sharp sting of tears behind both eyes, almost laughing at how I was about to instantly blurt out everything about the breakdown of my marriage, and all the stresses that were about to come with it. We definitely weren't

there

yet. "Tell you what," I said, once I'd taken a breath and got myself together. "Shall I get us a bottle of wine, and we can find a table and catch up? Unless, like, you're here with someone..."

"No!" he said, quickly enough I knew he wanted me to understand, he was single. My heart lurched at the idea he was so eager to let me know that. "I'm not here with anyone."

I saw his hands twitch as they hung loose by his hips. He was having the same dilemma as me — feeling like he wanted to reach out and touch me, hold me. My body was aching so much for him to do just that, I was grateful for the barmaid calling out to me, asking what I wanted, providing an excuse for me to turn away from him and get myself together.

Tom

There were no tables inside, so we braved the pub's beer garden. It was almost springtime, so the night air wasn't too cold, but when we took our seats at one of the picnic tables, and Dawn sat down on the bench next to, rather than across from me, I felt like it could have been a freezing winter night and I'd have barely noticed. Having her this close, after so long, had set my heart — and other parts of me — on fire.

We had drunk half the bottle by the time she was done catching me up on all that happened to her since we'd last seen each other. How she'd married Mark, and they'd been happy for a while; how they had two great kids they both adored; how her career in publishing was going brilliantly. ("I have my own list now," she said. I hoped I wasn't making it too clear that I didn't really know what that meant.) But despite all that, routine had set in, and she and Mark eventually found themselves going long stretches without really talking; and when they did talk, they would often bicker and row, sometimes viciously. So, they were getting a divorce, and she had come home to Kent for the weekend to ride out the first few days of the separation at her sister's house. I tried not to think too much about her possible reasons for coming here to the local pub, rather than going straight to Hayley's.

"Your turn," she said, as she poured herself another generous glass. "What have

you

been up to, the last... what is it, fourteen years or so?"

I gave her the quickest rundown I could: a couple of girlfriends, one I'd lived with, but we'd broken up "a while ago." I chose not to mention the words "five years," or "deliberate abstention." And I definitely wasn't going to say anything about growling her name into my pillow some nights. It didn't feel like the time.

She held up the bottle, silently asking if I wanted a refill. I shook my head to say I was good for the moment, and when she turned to put the bottle back on the table, I let my eyes drift over her figure, noticing where age had added a few centimetres, or even inches, here and there. Except for one notable exception...

"I had them reduced," she said, catching me checking her out and speaking over my mumbled, cursory apology. "When you're this much of a short-arse, having such big boobs is terrible for your back." I didn't know what to say, so I just made a sympathetic face. She tutted, rolling her eyes. "You'll miss them more than I do."

"Well, they

were

phenomenal." The words were out before I could stop them, and now there was as much blood rising up to my face as there was swirling around in my groin. I stared down at the table, unable to meet her eye for the moment. "Sorry, I..."

"That's all right." She shifted along the bench towards me, ever so slightly, dropping her free hand to my thigh, about halfway up. One more inch or so to the right, the tip of her little finger would have nudged the head of my cock, trapped in my jeans but straining and stretching towards her, almost desperately. It was the first time she had touched me since we'd run into each other inside. It was the first time I had felt her touch in nearly fifteen years.

I suspected that, tonight, I would be

screaming

her name into my pillow.

Dawn

After I'd had the breast reduction surgery — about five years ago — I'd often catch Mark idly looking at me, at my chest. He knew better than to say outright that he preferred my former, bustier figure, but I could always tell he mourned their absence, and knowing this is what led me to wearing the kind of loose-fitting, baggy sweaters, like I was wearing tonight, around the house. I'd often feel my shoulders hunch in Mark's presence, knowing that he now didn't fancy me quite as much as he once did; that he would actively think that he preferred how I used to look. I'd find myself sitting with my arms crossed, as if to cover my bust was to pretend that everything was normal. Another checkmark against the marriage — no one deserves to feel constantly self-conscious, knowing that their spouse now actually considers them less-than-perfect.

Why, then, when Tom stared straight at my chest, registering the "difference," did I not shrink and retreat from him, the way I would from my own husband? Just like how I didn't blush, or instinctively make excuses and apologise, when I saw his gaze sail over my hips, and knew he was registering where I'd changed, where I'd "filled out" with age.

Because it was Tom. And things were always just natural, easy, with Tom.

"You know what else is phenomenal?" I said, tossing his praise back to him. "The shape you're in. I was hoping you'd have let yourself go, but you haven't, you athletic bastard!"

His bashful smile sent such a charge through my whole body, it was all I could do not to swing my leg over his and straddle him right there, outside the pub. My hand had been on his thigh long enough that a little contact sweat had started form, but I wasn't going to move it unless he asked. And I had a feeling he wasn't going to do that any time soon.

Tom

It took everything I had to keep myself from shifting on the bench, so that the hand on my thigh would travel up. I wanted to feel her touch, ached to feel it. My cock, still restrained in its denim shackles, was almost painfully erect; my balls were practically wailing with a need to empty their contents — and my brain? My brain was making everything worse, having fun at all our expense by re-running some of mine and Dawn's greatest sexual hits, one of which happened right here, in this very beer garden, when we were about 20. A different picnic table to the one that we were sat at now, but this inconsistency did nothing to undo the vividness of the images playing in my mind. Dawn on her back, legs in the air as I hurriedly lifted the hem of her dress, up to her waist. Her gasp as I yanked down her underwear in one quick, fluid motion, keeping my eyes on hers the whole time as her legs snaked around my hips, pulling me into her as I unbuckled my belt, unzipping my fly and—

"Tom?"

Her voice dragged me back to the present. The twitch of a smile on her lips, the light in her pale green eyes, told me that she had a pretty good idea of what I had been thinking about. Plus, if anyone knew what my face looked like when I was getting aroused, it was her.

Dawn

When the bottle of wine was finished, I stared at it a long while, letting the silent question, "Another?" hang in the air. I felt almost nauseated with sudden fear. What if he said no? What if he had to get home because he, like, had to get up early in the morning?

Tom made an indecisive noise, that drew my eyes back to him. He was staring at me, as if asking what I thought. Then he cast a look back toward the pub — it had got even busier since we'd stepped outside.

"I've got wine at my house," he said, turning his head back to me, but not his eyes. Adorably, he seemed too nervous to look directly at me. "It's less noisy there."

My mouth said, "That sounds good," at the same moment my heart screamed, "About time!"

Chapter Two

Tom

As we walked through the quiet, near deserted village towards my house, my mind roared questions at me. Was this a good idea? She was going through a divorce right now — what if she wasn't thinking clearly? What if the half-bottle of wine added to a messed-up mindset had her doing something she was going to regret tomorrow morning? Was I an arsehole for extending the invite? For giving her the wine in the first place?

But when, halfway to my house, she stopped to text Hayley that she was OK, and would now be seeing her in the morning, I knew: good idea or not, this was going to happen.