She pays for two rooms but we only use one. It's inexpensive and functional, good enough for a night's sleep before I catch the early flight. She insists on driving me the hundred miles herself, leaving her family at home so that she can see me off properly.
It hadn't been too hard to find her. A few days of searching online and the woman who let me disappear from her life after giving birth to me twenty years ago appears in my inbox. After some nervous and uncertain messages, we finally meet. A few months later and we are here, lying together in the bed of an airport hotel room.
We are in the dark, face to face. She tells me that she wants to remember what it feels like to be this close to me. She touches me, as if exploring the sensation. She slips the strap of her nightie down over her shoulder. The softness of one of her hands slides inside of my shorts as the other caresses my neck and draws me close.
The shoulder length blonde hair, blue eyes and sweet smile make you notice her. But, at thirty nine, and with three children born in the last ten years, she is slipping gently into middle age. She is still attractive, but not in an obvious way. She still has something special.
It isn't just that for me though.
She talks a lot. And she smiles a lot. Any empty space is filled with her words and warmth. That is what makes me want to be close to her as much as I can. When she smiles at me, she makes me ache inside. I want her so much.
I am the complete opposite. Quiet to the point of shyness. She tells me that she loves that about me. I like it when she tells me that she 'loves' something about me. Anything. I just want to hear her say that.
Her hand twists through my hair, pulling me tight. She tells me that it's all right and not to be scared. I'm not. Why would I be. I feel safe. My lips press softly over the hardness of nipple and I sense her breathe out slowly as my mouth closes around her. She tells me that she wishes she had milk for me and I latch to her distended nipple.
