After picking through the drawer, you lift a navy hand-embroidered lace brief, hold it up to your nose and mouth, choosing.”I missed these…” Languidly, I push the sheets back, step off the bed and slip into those briefs. Watching the approving glint of your eyes in the mirror, I hook on a bra. We groom and go to diner. It’s the only time I ever see your glasses, when you study a menu. And you always straighten your tie when you are indecisive. That thoughtful brow only makes me think of twirling your nipples between my lips. Walking back to my apartment, along the river, your hand hardly leaves my waist.
“When do you go?”
"Need to get back to Seattle in two days. Something like that."
Pulling me close, you turn me to you and hold my face in your palm. Fingers curling around my hair. Months pass without us touching. Or talking. I do not know who you go home to. You never speak of who has broken you, or whose heart you’re robbing of oxygen besides mine. All I know is that we met at that yearly industry event and since your enthusiastic Hello, there hasn’t been a goodbye. We kiss. Your teeth nibble on my neck, as waves crash against the quiet pier. I slip my hands beneath your shirt, dig my fingers into your shoulders, down your back. I lose track of time, until the flashing headlights of a police car startles us. We walk. Once the door is shut behind us, and our shoes are off, your shirt and tie are on the floor. Your hands cup my ass, angling me to you, as you tongue around my clit without mercy. You match me fury for fury with a flickering that leaves me collapsing, in your arms, sweating. You let me have my way with you last night, you have bruises and bites and rope marks to either hide or cherish. But from me, you want the simplest thing. And it disarms me, every time.
"See you soon. I’ll miss you."
"And I, you."