I looked up at the clock on the wall and confirmed it was just nine-thirty, I had plenty of time before I needed to leave for my appointment. Each year on Valentine's Day I left work early for lunch, heading for my standing appointment. It was a lunch date I had at the same time each year. With the long walk from my office I usually got there a little late, but each year, regardless of how late I was, I did the same thing. After stopping by the florist, I'd pause by the same cafe' window, just out of her sight and just watch as she sat there.
She would sip her wine so calmly, so serene. One year it was Chablis, the next a Rose, last year it was Merlot, perhaps a Cabernet, I just remember the light red stain as she dabbed her lips with her napkin before setting it back onto her lap. She didn't wear lipstick, even in her older years she never really needed much makeup, a bit of eye shadow and not much else. Her hair was always slightly frazzled, as if she just stepped out of a swift breeze, but it never really detracted from her appearance. In the past few years the strands of gray replaced most of the dark brown, yet she still had a look about her that belied her true age. I remember wishing I had aged so gracefully.
I'd usually spend a good ten minutes or so just watching her though the window, in the same cafe', even the same table each Valentine's Day year after year. A small child holding his mother's hand might wander past and she'd follow them as they continued up the street, often craning her neck until they'd turn a corner or disappear though some door. Returning to her wine, she'd hold the glass just inches from her lips, lost in thought, just smiling. Then she'd take a sip, glance at her watch and then look back outside. She might continue to look back to her watch from time to time, but whenever I finally walked in, she was never mad about how late I was. Each year I was greeted by the same beaming smile and the light kiss on the cheek. I'd hand her a single red rose and then sit down.
After a quick toast to Valentine's Day, we always would eat light, usually something the restaurant could prepare quickly. Our conversation remained light hearted and jovial, though we both were a bit nervous with anticipation. We'd skip the dessert and when we were ready for the check she had a way of just nodding her head and they'd immediately know to bring the check. After a brief battle over who paid for the lunch, she'd brush her napkin from her lips one last time, take a peek at herself in her hand mirror and then gracefully stand. Looking back I noted that as we aged, the time we spent after lunch was not as urgent as in our younger years, but we still got excited about it, cherishing every moment.
Funny, each year as we checked into the nearby hotel, I'd sign in using my real name, signing in as Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. She'd always laugh as we walked to the elevator, enjoying our tiny conspiracy. By the time we reached out floor, our faces would be flush from giggling or, perhaps, in anticipation. Either way, we made sure we walked very calmly, properly to the room. I would then slide the key card in the slot and we'd step inside.
I remember last year, how the door had barely closed behind us before we crashed together in a kiss as I leaned her up against the door. Pushing my hips forward I felt my cock harden as I pressed it against her thigh. After that long kiss we broke apart and moved over to the bed, where we watched each other slowly undress. Though we had both aged over the years, I still felt like a teenager watching her unbutton her blouse and although her breasts sagged when she took off her bra, I still yearned to take them in my hands and gently squeeze them. Her nipples would harden as I ran my fingertips over them and I'd bend my head down and take a nipple into my mouth. I couldn't help but think how natural it felt to be sucking on her nipples.
Once we were naked she sat down on her bed and opened her legs. I could see the gray strands of hair sparkling in the dark brown curls, but it still felt the same as I ran my lips over them. Kissing downward, I worked my tongue into her pussy and tasting her earthy, tangy flavor, remembered how wonderful she tasted each year. At that time I glanced up at her, but she already knew what I needed and, whispering, "Here you go," she squeezed the tube of lubricant onto my fingers.
Easing my fingers into her pussy, I looked up at her face while my tongue moved upward, finding her clit. I always loved the expression on her face as the pleasure washed over her. I could see such a simple, calm delight as she closed her eyes and held her mouth slightly open, her tongue lightly sliding over her lips. Flicking my tongue quickly over her clit, I'd listen as her breathing quickened and she moaned lightly. Her hips began to lift each time I pushed my fingers into her, relaxing as I withdrew.
