Author note: As one reader pointed out to me in an email following my first story, I cater to the "fine dining" clientele of Literotica, not the "fast-food" one. This is smart eroticism not raunchy porn, so if you're looking for a quick and easy fix, you're better off skipping my stories. Otherwise, enjoy, and don't forget to leave any positive or negative comments!
Heads-up: The story is written chronologically backwards. I advise you to read it as is, and if you like it, re-read it from the bottom to the top, it might shed a light on some subtleties.
* * * * *
"I know where your tongue has been," I wrote on the card, my fingers trembling of their own accord as the memories of the past ten days flickered in my mind and the prospect of what lies ahead slapped me magnificently on both cheeks, clearing my head of any other thought, dream or desire.
I smiled to myself, considering the schism between where I had been, one and a half weeks ago, and what I was doing now, on Valentine's day of all days. And yet, it didn't feel sudden or improbable. No. It just felt daring and unbelievably... right. Here I was, at a florist shop, buying a dozen red roses for the most gorgeous, witty, sensual and lovable person I had met. Nothing unusual there, right? Except the details of who she was _ because yes, she was a woman too _ how we met, and why writing her that sentence on the card felt more sincere than "I'll miss working with you," or "I love you."
I drew a small heart, smiled at the teenage impulses she triggered in me, closed the card, tugged it in the bouquet, and made sure the florist had the correct address again.
It was supposed to be a surprise for her. To be completely honest with you, it was also meant as a thrilling yet careless gesture, like seducing a partner under the table of a packed restaurant, or fondling them on a dance-floor with all eyes riveted on you. I smiled again, knowing I had already done those, with her. And for a brief moment, I wondered what was to come, now that the ties that were holding us back were gone. I looked up to see the florist fixing me, a glimpse of sympathy on his wrinkled face.
"I said that'll be thirty dollars."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I answered, quite embarrassed by my distraction.
I handed him the money and was about to turn and leave when he added, "you're quite lucky". I stopped and stared at him, expecting an explanation.
"A lot of people come buy roses here, especially today, but not many have that..." he gestured to my face, "the look of true love." He sighed then continued, "I tell them when I see it, because you, young people, don't recognize it anymore until it's too late."
I knew I recognized it all too well, but it somehow felt more powerful, almost overwhelming, now that it was validated by that old man in a tweed jacket with a wrinkled face. "I know," I whispered, and he grinned then turned away to his register, politely dismissing my presence. I walked out of the shop, little sparkles flowing inside me as I recalled the way she had mouthed the word "tomorrow" the day before, like a promise of better things to come.
But it wasn't until one hundred and seventy three minutes later, when I stared at her face, the moment she opened my card, and saw the genuine surprise, the joy, the overpowering sense of adoration flooding it, that I eventually felt the promise of better things turn into a reality. She stood, surrounded by coworkers with celebratory champagne, hundreds of red roses spread on the ground or arranged in vases around her, and yet she clung tightly to my tiny excuse of a bouquet. She raised her eyes and through the crowded room, I saw the flicker in them that said, "you know where my tongue will be."
That was all I needed.
For I was aware, that every time that sentence was shared between us, the sparks had flown increasingly passionate, to have reached a supreme state. Right then. Right there.
---
"I know where your tongue has been," I shouted to her, defying the accepted norms a woman's voice should observe. She was now standing next to the door, in that red shirt I had grown to adore, her tousled short hair dancing with the wind and playfully caressing her face with a few dawn rays shimmering on the blonde strands. She shrugged and smiled, "you know too much about me."
"I do not," I quickly retorted and stood on the ledge. For a brief second she was terrified, then she seemed to understand that I was only enjoying the view and not planning something stupid.
"What else do you want to know?" She seductively and slowly walked towards me.
She had asked me that same question, when we first met. Nine days now separated us from that, and the situation had completely changed. I couldn't help but wonder, what else do you want to know when you have already seen the most intimate secrets of a person's physique? When you've kissed them, had your fingers delve deep into them, explored the mysterious lands within them that few were privileged to enjoy, tasted them and seen their face as their body exploded in rapture? When you reach that level of familiarity with someone, what else could you possibly want to know?
The ridiculousness of the situation surprised me, and I smiled as I lowered myself and sat down. Everything else. I wanted to know every other tiny or major detail.
"I want to know the smell of your hair when you get out of the shower, the taste of your mouth when you wake up in the morning. I want to know if you snore at night, if you cook as well as you eat," I winked at her, "if you can sing, whistle or ride a bicycle, and most importantly, I want to know if you look as good in a dress as you do without it."
"Tomorrow," she whispered, too low for me to hear her, but enough for me to guess the word as it formed on her lovely lips.
"Is there anything you want to know about me?"
She blushed and looked down. "The nine others, before," she eventually admitted, the jealousy making her more adorable.
"They didn't mean anything, just a part of the job. They didn't exist. Trust me, no one exists before you."
