I didn’t go home after he returned to work. Usually I would have let myself out long ago, gone home and showered and have several hours of work at the corner coffee shop under my belt. I used his shower and didn’t bother dressing, simply draping his t-shirt over me while I helped myself to his much fancier computer. I had to save time somewhere, and he was probably just going to undress me again when he got home anyway. (He did).
Tuesday morning I told him I was going to go home and work, and that I would make dinner for him that night if he wanted to come over. I wanted to keep going with my promise, but I also needed to get some work done so I figured the added promise of a home cooked meal would be enough to tide him over through the day. I made a lasagna so I would have plenty of time to get ready after I was done cooking. I showered and sprayed perfume in all his favorite places.
I dressed in lingerie instead of clothes and then when he texted me that he was leaving work, I tried something silly I’d read in Cosmo once. I was kind of sexed out and I needed to get back in the mood so I put on some relaxing music and laid in bed. Without trying to get off or do anything other than relax, I placed my vibrator inside me and thought about him — again, nothing too intense, just kind of opening myself up for the evening. As robotic and forced as the action seemed at first, when I put it away and got up to pour wine for dinner, I was in an entirely different mood. I wasn’t tired anymore, I was desirous, the knock at the door was one of promise instead of obligation.
I kissed him, open-mouth, in the stairwell, surprising even myself with my unwillingness to even walk up the stairs before I touched him. I was already ready, already wanting him and he, in turn, was turned on by my suddenly elevated interest. I wanted to feel his weight on me, and I placed my hands on his lower back, pulling him into me and feeling his jeans rub against the thin fabric of my negligee. I turned, finally, to lead him up the stairs to my kitchen and felt his hands left the back of the slip and grab my ass fully in his hands.
I almost couldn’t keep walking, the needing-him sensation inside me about doubled with that touch. While we ate, his hands never stopped touching me — rubbing my thigh, pulling me into him by wrapping his arm around my shoulder, brushing my hair back from my face. It was, oddly, an extremely romantic meal we both prolonged because the tension building between us was so fun to play with. Every touch was becoming unbearable.
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