The memories of the evening rolled through my brain like the Malbec. I had been both happy and excited to see Dirk and angry at him as well. First, standing me up for two appointments. Then a terrible attempt at making it up to me with dinner at a posh hotel. It wasn’t that bad of an attempt. The coconut tuna bowl had looked tasty. He had looked tasty.
My desire for him, though, had surprised me. As his therapist, I shouldn’t have those feelings for him. Even if I did, I shouldn’t act on them. Perhaps that private lap dance had poisoned my ability to remain detached. I had never really been able to shake the memories of that night, especially the time in the Cherry Pit—the dark, private area in the back of the strip club where I had given him a lap dance on amateur night. A lap dance and so much more!
I felt that desire for him from the other side of the table while I was in the restaurant. I tried to limit those sensations to my bedroom and sessions with my vibrator. The wetness between my legs and my hard nipples betrayed any desire to be ethical.
I knew the body could be a strange master, and I had learned self-control early in life. What I also knew was that your body often knew better than your brain and I had learned to listen to it. I wanted to listen to it, to give in, but I couldn’t. I shouldn’t.
The file he had on me lay in my bag on the kitchen counter. My anger really didn’t reach a boil until he laid that file on the table.
First, he made me sign an NDA to protect his privacy. Then he dug into my background. The people he interviewed. My ex was on that list. My realtor. An old landlord. Three of my college professors. Two close friends. And Jerald.
Somehow Raoul didn’t make the list. The last time I heard from him he was in Spain, though. Perhaps Mr. Baxter’s reach didn’t extend worldwide.
I had so many questions to ask Jerald, and I expected answers. We had known each other for about four years and two of those had been mutually beneficial to our sexual sanity. When my business took off though, I had cut out our two to three time a month rendezvous.
Even though I hadn’t seen him in a year, tonight I wasn’t in the mood for that, though. He had some explaining to do.
When I let him in, he pressed me up against the wall and kissed me. I was tall, but his six feet six inches and with me barefoot, he still towered over me. His body, honed from working in the firehouse, responding to emergencies and putting out fires, was chiseled better than any marble statue.
He had my robe opened, my lips parted, and his hands on my waist and hips. I felt his hard body against me in the shadows of the entryway. I swung the door closed and ran my hands through his sandy blond hair, caught up in the moment. Realizing why I had asked him her, I tried to get my hands on his chest to get some distance.
“Jer, we need to talk,” I managed in between gasps. I could feel my body responding in its already aroused state.
“Its been. So Long. I’ve. Missed. You.” He planted kisses on my lips and neck in between every one or two words.
“I know, Jer. I’ve missed you too.”
He kissed my chest and then my breasts through the thin, lacy material of my teal bra. My hard nipples pushed into the wet marks he left on it. He sucked one of them through the material and I gasped. I grasped the back of his head and held him there.
“We really. Need to talk,” I managed. Barely.
“We will, Regina,” he said, saying my name so that it rhymed with vagina.
I hated that normally, but Jerald was the only one who amused me when he said it. He sounded like a middle-grade boy teasing a girl in the playground. He was never malicious about it, though, and I’d learned to love it when he said that. Now, I wanted to talk, though.
He stepped back and pulled his Maroon 5 t-shirt off. In the dim light, his muscled chest and ripped abs were accentuated by the shadows. He leaned in and the feel of his warm flesh against my chest and his lips on mine melted the desire to talk. Jer had graced the pages of many a fireman’s calendar, and he was good at putting out fires. Trust me.
“We can talk after. I promise,” he said before picking me up and carrying me to the bedroom. He didn’t throw me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Not this time.
He carried me like I was nothing but a tiny girl safe in his arms. He kissed me as we walked and I wrapped my arms around his neck and returned those kisses. Jer was good at starting fires, too. Although in this case, the kindling had already been lit, he just put a big log on the fire.
He carefully navigated the hallway to my bedroom and somehow didn’t slam my feet or head into a door frame. He dropped me onto the bed and began undoing his belt. Soon, his jeans and all of his clothing were on my bedroom floor. I slid my kimono off of my shoulders and undid my bra. They joined his clothes right before he swooped in for a kiss.
Our lips and bodies melded together with an urgency I hadn’t felt between us in a long time. His mouth explored my breasts, my belly, my hips. Soon, his tongue was probing my panties. Kisses and tongue flicks added to the wetness between my legs.
“You’re wet and ready.” He sounded amazed. And eager.
I lifted my butt up when he removed my panties. Soon, they joined the menagerie of clothes on the floor. I could only gasp as he did what he was good at.
His tongue played across my pussy lips. Teasing them. Coaxing them. Pleasuring them.
I had one hand at the back of his head, pressing him into me. The other played with and squeezed my breasts. I wrapped one leg around him, opening myself up to him more. In that moment, any transgressions, real or imagined, were forgiven.
Four years ago, he’d been a thirty-year-old with a lot of encounters with women, mostly through Tinder. I taught him what I wanted during sex. I had also taught him that every woman was different.
He had been a willing pupil after some initial shock and denial. I didn’t have to tell him anymore what I liked. He just knew what to do.
He knew I liked my cunnilingus slow at first with long strokes of the tongue between and along my labia. He knew how I liked my clitoris pleasured and that he should work towards it like a dessert. I had taught him to vary the pressure on it, going slow and light at first. I made sure that he was present and listening, not just to my instructions but to my aural feedback: moans, gasps, comments.
