Reunion

She walked into the bar to meet a man she hadn't seen in years. She couldn't believe how her stomach was clenching and her blood was pounding. "Get a grip," she whispered to herself, "we're just meeting for a drink."

She scanned the crowd, wondering if he had changed since their last encounter. It had been seven years ago, just before he was leaving for Afghanistan. She met him one night at the local pub where she had gone for a drink with a friend. She had been depressed, working at a retail job that offered no satisfaction. And through a mutual acquaintance, they had begun to talk.

She had been convinced, at first, that he was arrogant and self-serving. Nothing in his demeanour had given her this preconception; however, he was undeniably handsome, sexy in an unassuming way that made her believe that he just passed time with women the same way he passed through town -- detached and with his own agenda. But as his warm hand found hers under the table, the heat began to flood her unprepared body. That first night had passed innocently enough -- playing golf in a public park at three in the morning, occasionally holding hands.

That first encounter left her heart pounding and her head spinning for days. She would find herself gently stroking her hand at work, emulating his soft caress. She found herself daydreaming, picturing his intelligent eyes and full lips, imagining what it would be like when those lips met hers. In the middle of her shift, overcome by desire, she phoned him, nearly in a panic. The conversation had been stilted and awkward, yet he had agreed to dinner.

As she got ready for dinner, she began to doubt both him and her desire. He was in the army, how intelligent could he be? To purposefully offer himself on an alter of violence must mean that he supported armed resolutions to international conflict, which must mean that he had conservative politics. However, at dinner, he was polite and well spoken. He casually ignored her blushes and stammers. As he was driving her home, she realized that her initial opinions of him were suspect, even stereotypical. He was more than a right-wing war monger.

She invited him in, and, as the door closed, he was pressed against her, his hand making a fist of her hair, his warm, inviting lips devouring her own. She panicked -- he was the aloof Casanova she had pegged him for. But she felt his need, his desire. His skin was hot to the touch and he ground himself against her with animal ferocity. She could feel the steel of his manhood pressing against her -- even through his clothing it seemed demanding, unyielding.

"No," she rasped, "I-I can't." She struggled against him and against her own desire. He backed off, but just an inch. His eyes bore into hers and his hand still held her hair fast in a knot at the nape of her neck.

"Why?" he breathed. His deep voice and intense stare made her question her motives. She could feel the heat of his breath on her lips. She closed her eyes, trying to regain her focus. She shouldn't - "Don't do it," a voice sounded in her head. She breathed deeply, causing her breasts to graze his chest.

"Look at me," he demanded. She resisted for a moment, but the sensuous voice compelled her to obey. She opened her eyes, looking at his neck rather than meet that hypnotic stare. Her eyes traveled down the tendons in his neck to where they met his collar bone -- strangely fine on a man so muscular. She could see a slight sheen there and nearly bent her head to taste it.

"Look at me," he repeated, as firmly as the first time; he tugged at her fisted hair. Her eyes traveled up his long neck, past the square chin, over those slightly parted lips, and finally her eyes met his once more. "Tell me why," he stated.

She squirmed under his gaze, awkward and unsure. What answer could she give him? That good girls don't have sex with strange soldiers whom they met while intoxicated at a bar? That she was worried he would think less of her for giving in? That she was furious with herself for having all these stereotypical thoughts? She struggled with herself but never once let her eyes disengage from his.

"Why?" he questioned, gently this time, as if he could read the inner struggle in her clear blue eyes.

She let out the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. He shifted his weight, causing his cock to press firmly against her thigh. "I don't know," she finally responded.

He looked searchingly into her eyes, and then his expression changed, like he had found what he was looking for. An impish grin touched his lips, and he closed the short distance between them. His hand around her hair relaxed, and he brushed his lips against hers. She involuntarily let out a quiet moan and her hips, seemingly of their own accord, rocked against his body. "Please," she whispered, uncertain whether she was asking him to understand or begging him to finish what he had started.

His one hand slipped down her back and gripped her waist pressing her firmly against his chest. The other drifted from her hair and encircled her neck, restricting her movement. He ran his tongue lightly over her lips, slowly covering first the bottom then the top. She tried move toward him and give her mouth to him, but his command of her body was complete -- she could not move from the embrace. But he himself could only take this teasing taste for a moment, and he bent to receive the parted lips.

As he took her mouth, she felt her final wall of resistance crumble. Her knees began to tremble and she struggled in her bonds to feel as much of his body as possible. Her hands ran over his well-toned back, and then dove for his belt. He released his grip on her waist and snatched up both her hands in one of his. He took a step backward, and she tried to follow, but he held her at arm's length, holding her wrists out in front of her. He replayed the impish grin from earlier and turned and led her into the bedroom.