Nolita

They went to the same place they always used to go before she moved to LA. It was a little Italian place just off Bowery in Nolita, the kind of place that just hunkers down with its Sinatra soundtrack and red checkered tablecloths, hoping that Chinatown wouldn't creep in and switch the marinara for hoisin before you knew it. They used to live in the neighborhood, and it was what she said she missed most about New York.

It was cold, she had forgotten what winter was like living in California, and with no scarf the wind crept down her jacket and up her skirt, tightening her flesh into goosebumps. He had goosebumps too, but not from the cold. He walked slightly behind her, closing his eyes to the longing to have her back in the old days when they would come to the restaurant and they would sit for hours. Her smile would twinkle and she would toss her blond hair and their toes would touch around the table legs, and then they would go back to his apartment where it was warm and they could have each other. He remembered how she would scream and yelp and bang and his old Chinese neighbor would give him little winks the next morning as he sheepishly checked the mail.

They came to the restaurant and he opened the door for her. She made fun of him, as always, for being such a southern gentleman. They were seated at a tiny table in the corner. The table was so small they could have easily touched knees under it, which they both studiously avoided. The tablecloth was the wrong shape for the round table, and it hung off enough that it was almost like a blanket, brushing the floor.

They ordered wine and bruschetta and caught up, the conversation was warm but banal. She talked about the wedding, how she was sorry he wasn't invited. About her new husband and how he was a really nice guy and he really wanted kids, but she didn't know if she was ready. He told her that he hadn't had a serious relationship in the three years since she left, but didn't tell her about all the women he fucked trying to forget her. He tried not to stare at her green eyes, the thick blond hair that cowlicked off of her forehead before spilling onto her shoulders. He tried not to focus on the small mouth and darting pink tongue that had made him so happy. He tried not to picture her holding back that hair and closing those eyes as she slid that mouth onto his cock, barely able to breathe.

She finished her wine and there was a silence. He looked sad, she remembered that look when his eyes would tighten up and he would stare off into the room. He still wore a little stubble on his jawline, the same stubble that used to tickle her thighs and belly. She remembered how he used to bite her shoulder when he was about to cum, just a little sweet pain as both of their bodies shuddered and sweated and pressed against each other.

They ordered big salads and veal parmigiana to share, at the chef's recommendation. She dribbled vinaigrette down her shirt and grabbed a napkin and some water to clean it up. He watched her dabbing the fabric, swearing, a slick trail leading down between her breasts. They were perfect, not the biggest he'd been with, but compact and shapely. Small B-Cups, he remembered how they hung on her chest sassily, pointing puffy little pink nipples up at him. Their skin was impossibly soft and he used to try to kiss every downy little blond hair around her nipples. He remembered how he used to try to get her to go braless, but the swishing of soft fabric across her nipples made her perpetually horny and almost useless, which he never minded but she did. He tried not to think about her leaning down over him when she was fucking him from on top, arching her back forward so that gravity would bring her nipples for him to suck as his cock was plunged snugly inside her.

She gave up on the blouse and shifted back up to look at him. Their feet touched, and neither of them moved away. They ate and talked about work, her new job in movies, his old job in magazines. Both of them wished they made a little more money. They were feeling freer with each other, things were feeling more natural, and they almost didn't notice when the waiter walked up.

"More wine for the lovers?" he asked.

They giggled and explained themselves, that no they weren't lovers, but sure another bottle of wine would be great. By the time their second bottle came, their knees were touching and they were talking about one of their first dates. They had gone to a movie with friends only a couple of days after the first time they had sex. It was sweaty, clumsy, crashing drunk sex that first time, the kind of sex that feels fantastic but that you're a little bashful about the next day. They couldn't get the other's smell off of them, couldn't get their taste out of their mouths. They sat at their desks at work crossing and uncrossing their legs, furtively going to the bathroom to relieve themselves in hopes that tiring out their privates would let them get some work done. And then they went to the movie, which was something terrible about race cars, and right there in the theater, right next to their friends, she had given him a handjob. A rough, jerky, grasping of his cock during the loud parts of the movie, finishing him in 5 minutes he was so pent up. Then he had reached up her skirt and felt her wetness and pressed a finger into her clit and wiggled it up and down until she was shuddered and coughed and they both had to go to the restroom to clean up. He remembered how his pubic hair was matted with cum, she remembered how she had to take her panties off they were so wet. She left them off and brought them back to her seat, pressing them into his hands to promise what would come later. They laughed and laughed and the whole restaurant turned to look at them a little, but it was so funny and they couldn't stop. They were such kids back then, what were they in high school? Movie theater handjobs? Those were the days.

They looked at each other and were both a little flushed from wine and laughing and, privately, being a little turned on from remembering that night. The waiter came again and they ordered tiramisu, and she excused herself for the bathroom. When she stood up, the room shifted and she caught herself, a master of putting one high heel in front of the other and walking in a straight line no matter what the circumstances. He watched her ass sway away from him. It was always the most wondrous part of her, such a round juicy thing behind such a tiny little white girl. He remembered how quickly the pale flesh would turn pink with a little spanking.

In the bathroom, she looked at herself, hair a little mussed, shirt embarrassingly stained. She sat down to pee and made the mistake of remembering his cock. It was long and thick, a little bigger around than her wrist. She remembered the first time she saw it, it seemed raw and dangerous to have such a big thing jutting out from his slim frame. She remembered how good it felt inside her, drawing out slowly as her pussy tried to hold it in, and then sliding back in quickly, filing her all the way up and reaching back to the back wall of her vagina, seeming to expand even more to stretch her while their pubic bones met and his balls rested on her asshole. Her husband's cock was nice, but it was no match. She sat on the toilet for a second, gathering herself. She reached down and fingered the crotch of her panties. There was a wet spot. Then, without thinking about it, she slid the panties down over her heels and balled them up in her fist, standing up and smoothing her skirt.

He was talking to the waiter when she returned. He could tell she had something in her hand, but assumed she brought back a tissue to clean her blouse more. She slid into her seat as he was asking the waiter about business and the new menu. He felt her hand on his leg, leaving something. The waiter turned to her and asked about the meal. He reached under the table to feel what she put there. It was warm and soft and silky. He could feel lace and maybe just a little dampness. He didn't have to look. He knew. As she continued to small talk with the waiter, he touched her knee. She slid forward. His hand crept up her leg, feeling the warm firmness of her thighs. He kept creeping up, pushing his chair out a little so that he could lean further forward. She was ordering another bottle of wine while he worked his way further up, and giving her compliments to the chef as he extended his middle finger and stroked up and down her slit.

He let his finger remind him of her perfect pussy. She never shaved but was always perfectly trimmed, he ran his finger through the short hairs above and around her mound. He always wondered how she got it so perfect. Her outer lips were swollen with desire, he could feel just the tips of her inner lips peaking through. He pushed in, spreading her a little and could feel the perfect point of her lips coming together, framing the hard nub of her clit, and then traced his fingers down as her lips widened to her tight little hole. His cock ached, but he leaned further forward, pushing a finger into her vagina. She smiled and gasped a little, pushing her ass further forward in his seat. He was hunched over the table and she was slumped in her chair, and they were both starting to catch a whiff or two of the musty sweet smell of her juices as he drew his finger in and out. When the wine came back he ha moved to her clit pressing with one finger while another rubbed up and down her lips. He smiled as she stumbled through tasting the wine and accepting the bottle. When the waiter poured him a glass, he drew his hand out from under the table and tasted the wine. He drank slowly, smudging the glass with her juices. He raised his finger to his mouth and licked it off. He had forgotten how good she tasted, like salty strawberries.

He went back to work, rubbing faster now. She was breathing harder across the table, her chest rising up and down, her fingers clutching her skirt to try and keep it from riding up. When he rubbed her clit she squeezed his arm with her thighs, silently begging him to go faster. She twitched, banging her knee against the table which caused the silverware and glasses to jump, she leaned forward just in time to catch her wine glass. The rest of the patrons turned to look and she smiled sheepishly. He didn't let her rest long though, fucking her vagina with two fingers while his thumb rubbed her clit. He remembered sliding into her from behind, leaning forward to grab her breasts or pull her hair a little while his balls slapped up towards her clit. He had to fuck her. He rubbed faster, she moaned. The waiter made as if to walk over and she waved him away. She slumped further into her seat. Her thighs quivered under the table. He rubbed. She came, her pussy walls clenching on his fingers and her juices leaking out and soaking half her hand. She excused herself. He asked for the check, wiping her girl cum on the tablecloth.

They walked to the subway quickly. She led the way through Nolita and up to Houston Street, where they hurried down the stairs of the BDFV. She had to get to downtown Brooklyn to her hotel so that she could catch her early flight the next morning. It was late on a weeknight and the station was nearly deserted. They sat at the end of the platform, not talking. They looked at each other, silent. He remembered how she loved sex on the floor, the more rugburns the better. She remembered how she would wake up with his swollen cock pressing against her ass as they spooned, leading to sleepy morning sex. He leaned in and kissed her. She tasted like wine and the past. He tasted familiar, a little smoky and sweet. The train roared into the station.

They got on the train without stopping kissing, their tongues fighting each other, their chins getting a little slippery with saliva. They sat next to each other, his hand immediately reaching up her skirt, her hand skipping to the bulge in his pants. He looked around the train. It was empty except for two bums sleeping at the other end of the train. She freed his cock from his jeans, his head shining with precum. She rubbed up and down his shaft before lowering her head to take it in her mouth. He groaned as her head descended into his crotch and he could feel his cock being clutched by her throat. He tapped her shoulder and motioned for her to climb on top. He pulled his cock and balls all the way out of his pants and she hitched up her skirt, showing her pussy that was slick with wetness again. She straddled him and situated herself, he reached between his legs and held his cock in place.

He entered her just as the train was going above ground to cross the Manhattan Bridge. She lowered herself onto him, her thigh muscles tensing as she took him one inch at a time. When she sat all the way down they were still, his cock pulsing inside of her, sharing heat, breathing heavily. He reached up and pulled her blouse and bra aside, took a firm nipple in his mouth and swirled his tongue while he sucked. She moved her hips up and down, drawing his cock against the inside of her, rubbing over her gspot. She opened her eyes and looked out the window as he pushed into her, the train was streaking over the East River. She could see the downtown skyline glittering, the muscular Brooklyn Bridge running next to them. And just a point of light, The Statue of Liberty lit up in the water. She closed her eyes and ground her hips down, pushing his cock as far as she could.

He could feel the cum building up inside him, his balls swelling and pushing his load into his shaft. He felt like he could feel it getting pumped closer to the tip with ever stroke. He held on as long as he could, not wanting to let her go, not wanting to ever be finished. When the train went back underground, he couldn't hold on any more, he buried his face in her breasts and let go, his hips rocking with hers. She could feel the warm liquid gushing into her, filling her up. She clenched her pussy, she wanted to keep it in there. She wanted him to be inside her forever. She climbed off, letting his cock slurp out of her. The train rolled into the station. He tucked himself back in his pants, she smoothed her skirt.

He walked her to her hotel door, they went slowly, silently. They waited out in the wind. He hugged her, she squeezed back. He couldn't go in. He knew it, she knew it. She was married, lived thousands of miles away. He wanted her, she wanted him, but it couldn't happen. He pulled out of the hug and kissed her on the forehead.

"It was good to see you. I've missed you," he said.

"I've missed you too," she said.