"You'll see lots of me this weekend. What are you wearing?" was his reply.
I didn't want to ruin the surprise of showing up in a purple low-cut V-neck wrap dress, or the initial plan, greeting him in a buttoned and tied lightweight flowing trench coat, but logistics were logistics.
The plane was a non-stop, but the four-hour flight seemed to take much longer than I anticipated. I tried reading, but couldn't focus on my eReader. Not even on Kenneth Rexroth, John Dunne or Pablo Neruda. The anticipation made my heart race and was setting every nerve ending in my body flashing, making me feel tingly, nervous and excited. I knew I would see him, but when? And what would I expect when I landed? I finally succumbed to a cocktail to calm my nerves. I could have used two, but I didn't want to be tipsy when I got off the plan, or worse, tired.
The last glimpses of light backlit the blueberry, magenta and orange sky of post-sunset painted the sky when I landed at SFX. The gate corridor wasn't very busy, which would make it easy to find whoever it was that was meeting me in the lobby.
As soon as I reached the lobby, there was a tall, stoic, bald and muscular man in a dark suit and white shirt and tie holding up a card with my name on it. He looked like the type who could send a man flying across the room with just one punch if he had to. He walked up to me, took my luggage, and guided me to the taxi stand. He was a man of few words and politely asked me about my flight in a quiet, low tenor. When I asked what his name was, he only said, "Bingo."
He let me in the back door of a black limousine. A tasteful sedan, not one of those tricked-out stretch limo.
Sitting in the back seat was my handsome and distinguished paramour, impeccably dressed in a sport coat, trousers, dress shirt, and a silk tie.
He barely let out a squeal before we locked into a rapturous embrace. Our urgent lips crashed into each other, breaking like the wild waves of a seawall in a wind-swept thunderstorm. Our tongues entwined like our arms and hands that sought to reconnect with every part of our bodies that had missed each other for exactly five weeks and four days. Our bodies meshed together as if they weren't separated by the fabric of our clothing.
His hands glided over my shoulders and arms, over the back of my thigh up to the roundness of my ass. I could feel a smile on come on his face as we kissed when he became very aware of the absence of a panty line. The lace of my bra rubbed against my hardening nipples as his hand swept over the curve of my breast. Feeling his solid, firm chest made it confirmed that this was indeed that this was real; I was really with him, only it was better than I ever expected.
He pulled away just far enough to look into my eyes that were just on the edge of welling up with joy. His were beaming as bright as his smile. As he reached over to grab a bottle of Dom Perignon and two crystal stems, I finally noticed that it was Miles Davis playing "In Your Own Sweet Way" soft and low through the speakers.
We clinked glasses and he made a toast to the woman who could surprise and delight him like no other. I couldn't resist to kiss him again, only to taste the dry and mellow taste of champagne that I gently sucked off his lips.
I asked where we were going. He didn't answer; he just refilled my glass and told me how absolutely thrilled he was to see me. As I savored my second glass while we talked, he slipped a strawberry into my mouth. I reciprocated, and once again, our lips locked and he pulled me onto his lap facing him. The skirt of my dress rode up high enough that the skin of my pussy could feel the hard bulge that felt as if it wanted to break free from his trousers. His hand glided over the back of my thigh and up towards the front of my hips and stopped long enough to caress and tease me, lighting a switch inside of me that instinctively made me sway my hips against him. I slipped his jacket off his shoulders and deftly loosened the buttons off his shirt and softly and gently ran my fingers and palms all over his chest. On occasion, a thumb and forefinger would pass over one of his nipples – sometimes just to pass over and brush over the tiniest tip. A few times, my thumb and forefinger would grasp a nipple from opposite ends, pinch it at the very center, and then release it.
His hands rubbed their way over my thighs and my ass to the tempo of "Nuit Sur Les Champs-Elysees." I backed away and quickly got to the serious business of unfastening the belt and the button of his trousers before tearing them, and his boxer shorts, off.
I bore my knees into the firm leather of the back seat bench, towered over him, and ripped the tie apart on the side of my dress, letting it fall to the floor of the spacious back seat area. I would have felt like a bit of an exhibitionist if it weren't for the dark tinted windows and the champagne in me saying, "Do it like the world is watching."
