She knew that no good could come of it. That's what she kept telling herself as she tidied the house, straightened her skirt, checked her lipstick. No good. And yet the house kept getting tidier. No cancellation phone calls were made. The lipstick was fresh and inviting with just a hint of melon scent. She knew better, but held onto the belief that it had been a long time, and that any concerns would vanish the moment he saw her--saw that she was no longer 17, no longer shiny and new. They would spend the evening chatting up old times, he would try to be pleasant, and certainly not let on that she was no longer the attractive, naïve thing that she once was. She was sure she'd feel the same: just revisiting some old memories with a man who just happened to be there for most of the memories she'd deemed worthy of keeping. They had exchanged photos, she being so careful to make sure she sent 'the family one' where she looked like she belonged. And his photos had been inviting, but, then again, don't we all send our best? The ones that take off the pounds, the years, the discontent?
So there she was, holding on to her contradictions. No good could come of this. Nothing will happen anyway. If nothing happened, would that be 'no good'? It didn't matter, she was sure. Because the evening would pass, and life would remain exactly how it had remained for the past seven years, and she would let the routine break only momentarily enough to catch up with this old friend. She would focus on the common friends, the school days, the moments of laughter they had shared. She would not allow herself to dwell on the other moments-- the first time she felt his lips, the feel of his hand against her thigh, the long slow teases they had shared in the dark. She refused to think about the first time she felt him become hard and about the change that it had produced underneath her panties, about the evenings they had spent hugging and rubbing and, God, how amazing it was the first time those jeans were undone and she had actually gotten to see IT. IT in all its glory. How she'd never wanted anything so badly, and how she had managed to abstain. But not completely. Not without a touch, a smell, a taste. Things she could still pull up from the depths of her memory. But no, she must not pull them up tonight. She must not think about how he looked between her legs, about the pleasure he had taken in making her shudder like that, about the way he clung to her and refused to let go as she bucked against----no, she must not think about that.
And with that, she was wet before he even knocked.
Could he tell, do you think, when she opened the door? Was there a hint of something in the air besides the melon lip gloss? His smile was an unpredictable mixture of kindness and mischief. Most certainly the long distance flirting had been a bad idea, she now surmised. As she stuttered and trembled her way through the formalities of reacquaintance, she wondered if he had not noticed that she, well, for lack of poetry, wasn't as pretty and young anymore. She led him through the house quickly, with no pretense of hiding her nervousness. Actually she was far too nervous to even notice her nervousness. She led him room-to-room, showing him furniture, books, paintings until there was nothing left to do but actually look at him. The silence seemed painfully loud, but he replaced it quickly with a "Come here." She had never been able to deny him (other than that one thing which some young women feel obliged to deny some young men). And so she went to him, standing there, wondering what he might be thinking.
"Don't be so nervous," he whispered. As he wrapped his arms around her, she melted in memories. Yes, this was what he felt like! This was how he smelled! And this was how he brought her comfort, took away her fears, made her feel alive. In that brief moment he managed to sweep away the distance, the awkwardness, the hurt that she had felt when it was over. They were replaced with the warmth of a friendship that was deeper than lust, deeper than the heartache had been. That's when she realized it-- it didn't matter what they had shared in the past. Sure, she had been attracted to him, but that was nothing in comparison to having back such a friend. As he held her tightly, she realized that it was enough. Most likely, she would not have allowed anything else to happen anyway. Even still, she couldn't deny that he was just as beautiful as always--even more so. The years had added a grace to his features, an intellectual superiority, and a maturity that would have made him even harder to resist (had he made an effort).
The hug may have lasted a little longer than usual, but it didn't seem to last long enough. Not to her. As he released her, and reality set back in, she realized that time had not stood still, and that not all of the nervousness had magically vanished from his touch. She smiled at him and turned away to find something with which to busy herself . Maybe she could make some coffee, maybe some tea, maybe just a whole big dinner to keep her occupied. But as she moved away from him, walking toward the next room, she felt his grip again. His arm had caught her around the waist, and he pulled her back to him, nestling his face in her long blonde hair. In a moment of shock, she stood perfectly still, alert to the sudden change in his demeanor. Torn between fear and absolute desire, her body pressed against his without a shudder. She felt his mouth move to her ear.
"I want you." The words fell from his lips to the very depths of her heat. She wondered if he could feel it through his jeans, wondered if the room had actually gotten hotter when her desire escalated. But she took his hand, calmly removed it from her blue dress, and simply replied, "Good to know," with a smile. And it had been good to know. She wouldn't have assumed such a thing...that he would still be aroused by her. But he was, she was sure of it, sure that she felt something extra when he had held her close. God she wanted it, wanted to bend down right there in the family room and taste it once more. Wanted to roll her tongue over it and remember the sweet flavor of her friend. How much she longed to show him that she had paid attention during their tutoring sessions, that she still remembered his pleasure spots, that she was more willing than ever to please him. But certainly, she was in no position to be making a move on this man; surely it was enough to know that the attraction was still...
He began to unzip his jeans and she had absolutely no doubt that she should look away, or ask him to leave, or (at the very least) not drop to her knees and lick it. But there she was. And there it was. And yes, it tasted as perfect as she'd remembered. And the smell, well it was his smell; she'd never forgotten it. So, as she kneeled before him, she watched the expressions of pleasure creep across his face. From underneath his rod, she could lick and suck and watch his need increase. She could grab him from behind and slowly take in the length of him, filling her mouth--her throat--with his desire. God, it was so smooth, so hard, and throbbing for her. Throbbing from the silky hot friction of her lips, from the loving twirl of her tongue, from the sweet sensation of her sucking. She loved every second of it. She loved to feel the head slide between her lips, and to feel how tight the shaft became against her tongue. She gasped with excitement as the first juices dripped for her, and she lapped them up readily, rubbing his cock all over the outside of her mouth in a moment of pure need. She was so wanton when it came to him, so shameless.
Then she was jolted. No good can come from this. How could she? She knew better!
"I'm sorry," she breathed as she arose from her knees. "I shouldn't have."
