I was by the door. The image of that house we had walked into uninvited kept coming back to me. I wanted to tell Andrew we should’ve hung around the place, waited a little.
He dropped the bags and turned to me. I took a step towards him.
Somewhere in that movement, I lost that imposing piece of real estate that had occupied my thoughts.
I inhaled Andrew’s scent, a zesty olfactory sensation.
His left hand took my right, and his lips full brushed against mine. They were rough, like my breathing.
I felt him and he felt me.
Our tongues explored in turn, revelling in comforting tastes, cigarettes and citrus, his joy and my keep-me-awake chewing gum. He was giving, I was taking. We stilled suddenly, but our bodies hummed, telling each other things that words couldn’t quite articulate.
A boy. A girl. Heat.
I felt a smile warm my cheeks. However the day had panned, this is how it was supposed to end. I’m not sure if that was a thought or if that’s what I was telling myself. Maybe it was both.
My nails dug into his warm palms.
I exhaled, Andrew inhaled. In sync, like ballroom dancers. Eyes locked, smoking fire. We repeated the exercise, revelling in the notes our bodies hit.
My eyes toured the length of his arms before returning to his full lips.
‘Your skin,’ he said, ‘smoother than single malt.’
I laughed.
A half-smile flashed across his face. Those lips were meant for kissing.
My heart was racing. Ferrari engine.
Andrew drew me to his full height. He was carrying me, my legs were locked around his waist, and I wriggled my way into him, nearer, closing the non-existent gap between us.
I heard a cry. Was it me?
My nervous fingers stroked his jawline; my tongue was discovering flavours. I heard a moan. I love the sounds he makes.
Andrew was swaying to an inner beat, maybe, and I was being rocked from side to side. My hand was in his tee, and my mouth shifted to his clavicle. I took a bite of the bone before leaving a trail of love bites. A bright blush against his pale skin.
He groaned.
I kissed his neck.
Andrew’s right hand was deep inside my denims; he was stroking me. I squealed. Andrew put me down gently.
‘I’m going crazy,’ he said. I thought it was me.
I worked off his jeans, tossed them aside and knelt before him, taking him in my mouth. I stroked him with my tongue, long, slow strokes, a playful brush of the glans.
A shiver ran through Andrew. I felt it; he shook. His fingers were in my hair. Tangled. He tugged, I hurt.
‘Myraaahhhh.’ It had been ages since I had heard him call out to me that way. A cry that came from deep within him.
I intensified the stroking; my fingers roamed his rump, then kneaded his quadriceps.
‘Aaahhh,’ he shouted and pushed my arms aside. Andrew joined me on the carpet; he was kneeling before me.
He rolled off my tee. The lacy ombre bralette followed.
