by Jove Belle

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Copyright © 2006 by Jove Belle. All Rights Reserved.

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The air whooshes back into my lungs and my feet are suddenly moving. I pick up a menu on my way past the cash register and drop it onto the table in front of you. I try to speak, tell you the special of the day. Nothing. My mouth is open, but no words are forthcoming.

“How are you, Jillian?” Your voice is soft, gentle and so inviting. I revel in it. You remember and I’m gratified.

I gulp air, trying to regain my voice, and nod at you. “I’m...” I clear my throat, trying to banish the raspy, squeaky tone my vocal chords have adopted. “I’m okay. You?” I try to sound casual, disinterested. It doesn’t work. I’m so eager for you, your approval, your touch.

You run one lone finger over my hand – the hand I had placed with false casualness flat against the table. Moments ago, I complained to an employee about the chill in the air, that my hands were ice. Frozen. Now one is ice and the other is fire. A blaze shoots from your fingertip onto my skin and I’m betrayed. “I’ve missed you.” You say it in a hushed, half-whisper, imploring me to accept you, accept what you have to offer.

The limitations are still there, the restrictions. They always will be. She always will be. I saw the two of you, walking together, holding hands. Your heads were tipped close together, intimate, a shared secret between lovers. A bag of groceries was cradled in your arm, testimony to your relationship, your commitment. You’ve been tamed. Domestic bliss.

And yet, here you are, running your fingers, more than one now, over my skin. I force a ragged breath. “The soup of the day is russet potato with ham.” My voice is still shaky, but smoothing as I push out word after word. “The lunch special is half a sandwich of your choice and a cup of soup for $4.95.” It was a good special. My diner isn’t fancy, but I serve good food.

You turn my hand over and place your palm flat against mine. Your eyes are hungry, needy. There’s no hint of love, of friendship. Only the raw desire that slams to the surface when we are together. “I didn’t come here for lunch.” You don’t say it. You growl it, low and heavy. Your nails dig into my wrist. “Jillian...please...just say yes.”

“Dani, you should go home.” My voice is finally calm. I’m in control. We both know that I’m going to give in, that I’m going to push back the curtains that hide the stairs. We both know that I’m going to lead you by the hand to my apartment above the diner. We both know I’m going to say yes.

The diner is almost empty. The lunch rush is over and there are just a few stragglers drinking coffee and reading the paper before returning to the work day. Isaac, a homeless man who lives two blocks over, behind the Cash and Carry, strolls in through the front door. He’s obviously been to the Y to shower and get a fresh set of clothes. His step has a little swagger to it today.

I pull my hand from your grasp and go to greet Isaac. “Lunch special okay today, Isaac?”

“Perfect, Jilly, just perfect.” He pats his belly and smiles. “I could smell that soup all the way down the street.”

Two years ago Isaac showed up after the lunch crowd had dispersed for the day. Offered to clear the tables and do the dishes in exchange for a meal. I let him keep all the tips left from my customers and fed him all he could eat. He’s been back every day since. I’ve tried, more than once, to get him to let me pay him, put him on payroll like the other employees. He refuses. He doesn’t want the establishment, whoever that is, to know where he is.

You watch with measured patience as I serve Isaac his lunch. Today might be the day that you get up and leave. The thought of that makes my heart race. I delay my return to your table, daring you to walk away. Giving you time to run back to the safety of your everyday life, to the arms of your lover. You don’t get up. Your hands grip the edge of the table, your knuckles are white from straining.

God help me, I want you.

Isaac looks from me to you and then back to me, his eyes sweeping across the room in a slow, direct line between us. He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side, a slight frown on his face. He doesn’t approve of you being here. Hell, neither do I.

I smile at him. A smile that asks for his indulgence and the frown evaporates. “Be safe,” he says in that gravelly voice that betrays years of alcohol and cigarettes. He’s been sober for two years, six months and eighteen days. The coin in his pocket reminds him of the work he’s done, that’s what he told me when he showed it to me.

I look back to your table and you are gone. My brain tells me that it’s for the best. My body screams that it’s not fair.

Your hot breath on the back of my neck makes all the fine, little hairs stand up at attention. My back arches and strains toward you. “I’m done waiting.” You say it so low I wonder if I just imagined it.

I definitely am not imagining your hand flat against the small of my back, inside my shirt, searing my skin. Your touch is confident and unwavering, far too bold for public. Still, I push back against it, aching for more contact.

“I’ll be upstairs.” I announce to my employees, not caring what they think about my afternoon liaison. They couldn’t possibly understand they way you touch me, the way you affect me. It would do no good to try and explain.

The curtain between the professional and the personal is a thick, heavy tapestry. Tightly woven knots and vines circle and twine around one another. We bought it together, in another lifetime, at a roadside market in the country. Twenty dollars and a lengthy discussion about how to get it back to the city, that’s all it took and it was mine. We were on your motorcycle, enjoying the excuse to press our bodies together. It was our freshman year in college, neither of us knew why we enjoyed each other’s company, why we felt that little tingle when our hands accidentally touched. We couldn’t get enough. We figured out why soon enough.

You push it aside, your movement steady and sure. This is not the first time you’ve climbed these steps. Wrapping your hand around mine, you pull my body close, taking the stairs two at a time. When we reach the top, you fumble with the door. It’s new. An addition since the last time you visited me. There had been a rash of break-ins a few months ago and I felt somehow more secure with the veneer-covered door between me and the things that go bump in the night. It was absurd and false. And it was in our way.

I pulled the key from my pocket. “Let me.” You pull it from my trembling fingers and shove it into the lock.

We stumble through the open door and you push it shut behind us. The click of the lock is deafening. You reach for me, grasping for me and pushing me against the door at the same time. Your mouth is on mine, demanding, pleading for entrance. And I melt, dissolve like spun sugar. Your tongue is hot and probing, sending tendrils of lightning straight to my clit.

It’s always like this between us. Desperate, ravenous. No hesitation, no right and wrong, no thought of consequences. Just you and me and an overwhelming need to press our skin together. All consuming fire.

I’m lost in your kiss and don’t realize that your hand is inside my pants, fingers curling in anticipation, until the moment you slide into me. No, not slide. It’s not gentle. You slam into me, full force. No warning, no tease. Like a gale force, you’re in me, filling me, pulling back, before returning with a frantic cry.

I gasp for breath. I can’t help it. For twenty years I’ve been slammed against walls, bent over couches, crashed to the ground, thrown onto the hood of the closest car. I know it’s going to happen, yet it overwhelms me every time. The flame that started when you walked into the diner rages with the fury of six long neglected months. I give myself up to it.

There’s not enough space for you to do what you want. Your hand strains for more room, fighting against the restricting fabric still clinging to me. In desperation, you remove your hand. Capturing my eyes, locking me in place with your intense, dark eyes, you wrap your left arm around my waist. Low, at the no man’s land between back and hips, right at the top edge of the swell, you hold me tight. You push your hand into top of my pants, sliding it down to cup my ass. You squeeze, hard.

“Stay. Right. There.” Each word is forced out with deliberation, allowed time to register before the next one arrives. It’s a commandment and I must obey. My legs are fine, doing their part, keeping me vertical. My knees are missing in action. A gelatinous mess where joints used to be. I lean against the door and pray they don’t buckle.

You’re on your knees in front of me. Yanking hard on my jeans, jerking them down. I struggle to step out of them. Staying upright with both feet planted on the floor is hard enough, raising them, one at a time, impossible. But I manage.

You rise in one, fluid motion, nudging my legs apart and pushing your fingers back inside of me. “Yes.” Your breath is hot in my ear, sending tingles down my neck. You hold me close, kiss me hard and fuck me harder.

I gasp, cling to you, beg you, please, don’t stop. Harder. Faster. Deeper. I want it all. I love you like this. All raw want and need. We tried, once upon a time, to live together, our judgment clouded by a haze of orgasmic, knee-shaking passion. We learned quickly, that once the storm passes, we have nothing in common. Nothing to talk about.

I don’t want to talk. Fire sweeps through me, given life through your touch. You, your fingers, deep inside me, owning me. My vision blurs and the room swirls black and red. I’m so close and you know it. “Stay with me.” Another command. You aren’t ready for the ride to be over. You want more. You always want more. “Not yet.” You say it as you slam into me, over and over.

“Please.” You have to let me come soon. I’ll shatter. I’ll break in two. I’m at your mercy.

Your mouth is on mine, pushing your tongue past my lips, past my teeth, complete invasion. Ownership. Then it’s gone. Your lips, still pressed against mine, curl into a smile. Then you drop to your knees in front of me and I tremble in anticipation.

The rhythmic thrusts gain momentum, grow more urgent. I strain to hear you, hopeful, waiting for you to speak. I’m not sure I will hear your low voice over the blood rushing from my head.

“Now.” It’s low, almost a prayer. “Come for me, now.” Then you suck my clit between your teeth and flick your tongue over it, once, twice, three times. I don’t know. It could be three times. It could be three million. Time stops and I come undone completely.

I slide down the door, collapse on top of you. You’re sweet and tender now. Holding me, waiting for the tremors to subside. You’re calm now, amazingly. I haven’t even started.

Ten minutes. That’s how long you’ve been here, including the time spent in the diner. I used to make you work for it, beg for it. Now I’m half naked and trembling against a door in less time than it takes to cook bacon properly. Mind-blowing, earth-moving, life-affirming orgasm in ten minutes.

I want you. I want to taste you and can’t wait any longer. I tear at your clothes. Scrambling desperately to get them off, remove all barriers. I want skin. I run my tongue up the length of your spine, enjoying the trail of goose bumps I leave in my wake. It’s not enough.

I try, with new lovers, to be calm. To be generous and gentle, careful not to push too hard, too fast for too much. With you I don’t need a filter, no governor on the accelerator. It’s all the way to the floor, zero to sixty NOW. I’m everywhere, exploring the new-again terrain of your body. I flick my tongue over your nipple.

It’s your turn to gasp. And I love you like this. All open and trusting. Knowing I will take you there. Eager, wanting it. Eyes closed, head tilted back, body shuddering in response. I suck the nipple in hard and nip lightly with my teeth. You hiss and arch and I pull my mouth away, releasing you.

The smell of sex is everywhere. Heavy, hanging in the air. Intoxicating me, calling me, pleading with me to drop my head just a little lower. Drunk on the moment, I push you onto your back and place my hands on your thighs. No pressure. I don’t say a word, just leave my hands there. A silent question, a request for access. I wait for you to spread your legs for me. And you do. With a soft sigh, permission is granted. I slide down between your legs, my hands still on your thighs, gripping now.

Your hands are on my head, twined in my hair, pushing me down. You’re done waiting. The words echo in my head. My mouth waters in anticipation and I force myself to wait. Just a moment longer. I want to savor this. I inhale deeply. The exhaled breath makes you tremble and strain toward me. With your fingers in my hair, your moans in my ears, and your trembling thighs beneath my hands, I flatten my tongue against your cunt and trail it across the surface, pushing hard, flicking the tip over your clit. Nectar of the gods.

You shudder, so close. Too close, too soon. You’re always like this. Sometimes you come just from fucking me. I want to stop, to thank you for waiting, but that would mean taking my mouth away. I can’t do that. Unthinkable.

I want to crawl inside you, taste you from the inside. I’m ravenous, like a woman leaving the desert after forty years. I can’t get enough. There is no such thing as enough. You buck and thrash. I wrap my arms around your thighs, pulling you to me, holding you tight to my mouth. I can’t breath and black spots form behind my eyes. Still, I can’t stop. You’re so close, shuddering to climax.

You scream, but it barely registers. I continue my worship. You’re body goes limp and, finally, I feel the insistent tugging at my hair, pulling me up. I crawl up your body and wrap you up in my arms.

This is the part I hate. The separation. We pull our bodies apart, no apologies, no promises. We both have obligations. Promises made to others. You button your shirt, tie your shoes and kiss me goodbye at the door.

The End

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