It was a good second date. He was less tentative, less shy, more willing to be taken and led, in conversation and in hand. Unlike the rainy afternoon of our first meeting, chaste and sweet as it was, tonight was balmy, the beginning of the beginning of something that looked like summer, complete with a cotton candy sunset and that hot blooded feeling when your body begins to forget winter.

I was drinking rosé, as one does on a lushly warm evening. I’d quizzed him on beer by text earlier and picked up what he said he liked. I chuckled when he seemed unfamiliar with the cold bottle I handed him. It was sweet and funny to me that he’d tried to sound like the microbrew he’d named was an old favourite. Boys can be so silly. I like that he’s so boyish, there’s something in his jeans and t-shirt aesthetic that does it for me; it matches the lean, rawboned look about him. He smiles with his eyes, big blue pools of mischief, not so much his mouth. He plays the angel, but he’s got a bit of devil inside him that I want to lure out.

We talked and talked tonight. We talked about work and life and love and we let the evening unroll. The sun was low when I asked him if he wanted to kiss me. When he nodded yes, I told him he should, and he did. My mouth showed him where to put his lips next on my throat. My hands showed him the weight of my breasts cradled in the stretch and give of my tank top. My knees, astride his hips, showed him how urgently I wanted him to stop talking and use his lips for more nobler pursuits. The sun had dropped behind the hills when he silently followed me, hand in hand, up to my big white bed, an ironically pure seeming altar, considering the pyre it became for the next several hours.

He moved so well against me, with me. His hands were shaky at first and I teased him, taunting him that maybe this was more than he could handle, more than he’d signed up for. He laughed and looked away at first, whispering sweet excuses into my hair and neck, shy and quiet. As the heat and hunger grew he took to showing, not telling, and I spurred him on, letting him push himself and then yanking him back into my focus. He sighed and moaned when my fingers tightened in his hair.

His chest was wet with sweat, dripping onto mine as we kissed. I lay back into the pillows as he hooked my knees over his shoulders. His hands were gentle and strong, calloused and articulate, heavenly as he sank them inside of me, second only to that serious mouth pushing my cunt open and turning me inside out. His licks were long and soft, well measured, none of that irritating porno-style flicking and rapid fire staccato. No, these were the licks and sucking kisses of a man who loved to eat pussy and he made a banquet of me. I tried, at first, to direct him, to put his head just so with my hands, to talk and tell and instruct but he soundly ignored me until he lifted his head and said softly, “Just let me …”. He didn’t mean “Give me what I want”. He meant “Let me give you what you need.” So I did. I stopped directing and let him work me over with the skill and panache of a man twenty years his senior. I came and came and came again, entirely lost in the softness and determination of his mouth, the depth and breadth of pleasure that his tongue and lips were providing. Breathless and soaking, I pulled him up to me, and let him kiss my mouth with the same detail and attention that he’d shown my still twitching cunt. A glance at the clock told us both it was time he left, and we both stalled, kissing slower, grinding closer, riding the hot knife edge of desire together.

We didn’t fuck. Not tonight. I slipped on pajamas and followed him down the stairs. He snuck in a long kiss on the landing and another at the front door. There was a long goodbye and a whispered farewell before I closed the door and crawled back into bed. Here I am, the warm breeze from the window moving through the curtains, the heat of him still palpable on the sheets. It’s a strange place to be, that lull when a lover leaves, caught in the fantasy of next time and the lush, wet memories of the evening, still as the night in the aloneness of after.


Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.