Caitlin held the message slip carefully, as though it might burn her if she clutched it too tightly, looked at the number for a long moment, then held her breath and dialed.
"R. Smith Consultants," a smooth-voiced receptionist said.
"Uh, Richard Smith, please," Caitlin said.
"Just a moment."
Once upon a time, Caitlin and Richard had been friends. Once upon a time, Caitlin had thought about Richard every waking moment; her crush had been ferocious back in the day, and she had wondered about Richard ever since he'd moved away.
And now he'd moved back into town.
Richard picked up the phone, and Caitlin felt a small, panicky thrill when she heard his voice. She said hello, identified herself, and then, against her will, let out a nervous giggle.
"Caitlin... Walters?" he asked, as though confused.
That was as effective as a cold shower, she decided.
"Sorry to have bothered you, Richard," she said. "I just thought you might remember me... and want to catch up on old times."
"I do!" Richard said. "I do. I just--Caitlin, it's good to hear from you. Would you like to have dinner?"
"Sure," she said, though she was no longer so sure. She began to list off places downtown.
"No," he said, cutting through her list. "I thought you could cook for me."
She was silent for a moment.
"Beef Wellington?" he asked.
"Certainly," she said, and they made the arrangements. When she hung up the phone, she sighed with relief and something like exhaustion. "You do remember me," she murmured. Five years before, she had been trying to perfect her Beef Wellington, and Richard had volunteered for guinea pig duty several times.
She was an idiot, but she wasn't as much of one as she'd feared.
---
He was a guest in her home, and she foolishly worried about how to entertain him.
Dinner came and went, and Caitlin grew more and more nervous as the night progressed. When she knocked over her half-full wine glass, Richard took her hand and said, "All I want is to spend a little time with you. To sit together, like we used to, and have you tell me your secrets."
"My secrets," she said, staring at him. He had grown more attractive with time, and all she had grown was fatter--up two cup sizes, in fact, and another size of jeans. "It's been five years. I wouldn't even know where to begin."
"It's simple enough," he said. "You just have to relax. Open up to me."
They sat on opposite ends of the couch for a time, holding their after-dinner coffee, and made no real headway in the conversation.
"Maybe I should just go home," he said after an extended awkward silence.
"Maybe," Caitlin said, and thought regretfully of the fresh sheets on the bed upstairs, and the lacy underwear she'd bought, just in case.
In the foyer, she helped him with his coat. He paused in putting his scarf around his neck, and peered upstairs. "Big house," he said.
"Yes," she said, uncertain, and opened the front door. The storm door leaked cold, damp air, but it stopped most of the winter weather from coming in.
"Come here," he said. "Let's have a hug, for old time's sake."
She went, willingly enough, and put her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently, with warm delicacy that she couldn't pretend wasn't there. She suppressed a shiver.
His hand trailed from her shoulder to her neck, from her neck to her cheek, from her cheek to her lips. His thumbs traced her lips once, twice. Involuntarily, she opened them, and he pressed the advantage immediately, sliding the tip of his thumb inside. She closed her teeth firmly before his thumb could gain further entrance.
"Open," he said, his voice low and rough. She did not obey, keeping her teeth stubbornly together, pulling back and staring at him. He glared at her, and pushed his thumb against her teeth. "Open!"
Hesitantly, she parted her teeth, and his thumb penetrated her mouth to push firmly down on her tongue, rubbing back and forth as though feeling the texture of it. Delicately, she pushed her tongue against his thumb, stroking the wide, blunt digit, and blushed to do it.
Good God, I'm licking his thumb,
she thought.
"Very good, Caitlin," he murmured, and pulled the thumb from her mouth.
They stood there in the entrance way for a long moment, looking at each other.
Then, with one hand on the side of her neck, he slowly and deliberately raised his blunt thumb and pressed it to her lips again. Contrarily, she did not open her mouth for him.
"Open," he said roughly, and gripped the side of her neck harder, using it to hold her head while he pushed his thumb into her mouth. "Do what I tell you."
Strangely, obediently, she parted her lips again, and again, his thumb invaded her mouth, sensuously stroking her tongue. "Close your eyes," he told her. She did, and stood there, jaw slack and eyes squinted shut, feeling his thumb rub her tongue over and over, thrusting like a--
Just as suddenly as it had invaded her mouth, he drew his thumb out, and rubbed the wetness from her mouth over her lips.
She felt him come closer, step up against her body, and she thought he might kiss her then, but she was too afraid to open her eyes.
Then, she felt her wrap shirt being parted, the cold draft from the storm door raising gooseflesh on her skin; when she opened her eyes, his rough fingers where spilling her tits out of her bra. Her nipples swelled beneath his touch; he stroked the calluses of his thumbs over the nipples again and again. She gasped.
"No one told you to open your eyes," he said, keeping his eyes on her nipples. She hesitated for a moment. "Close them," he told her firmly, and flicked a nail across one nipple. When she shut her eyes again, she felt his hot mouth engulfing the tip of her left breast. She moaned and writhed against him, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, caressing her back and arms, pushing her body upwards towards his greedy, feeding mouth. The suction grew nearly painful, and she shook with conflicting desires to push him away and to pull him closer, but most of all she wanted to beg him to never stop touching her.
