Dinner was quiet. Months ago she would have called it "polite" but now she could tell that his careful demeanor masked a tension that needed to be eased.
He was a good chef. When she finished, she set her fork and knife down and gazed at him across the table.
"I'm yours," she said, and stood up, watching him. He followed suit and she went into the bedroom. As she entered, she looked over her shoulder. He was carefully watching her, waiting for her next move. A shiver of anticipation slid down her spine.
"Will you undo this?" She turned away from him and presented her back, pulling her hair up, exposing her neck. She felt his hands as they gripped around her waist and she realized how broad they were as his fingers spanned her. Then his lips pressed against the base of her neck, and his fingertips were at the clasp at her neck and he undid her dress and began to expose her shoulders. She shivered in anticipation and sighed when she felt his mouth slide over to her shoulder blade.
The expanse of her skin on her back begged to be touched. So he did, and he was gratified to feel her shiver as he traced her spine with his fingertips.
She leaned back into him and he wrapped his arms around her. This was new for him and he was attempting to take it slow. But truly, he just wanted to devour her.
"Jean-Luc."
He kissed her neck. "Yes?"
"Yes. Whatever you want."
He was fascinated by the curve of her breasts as she laid on the bed underneath him. They were firm and soft at the same time, and amazingly sensitive. As he pressed his open mouth against her stomach, he squeezed a nipple and heard her strangled whimper, felt her twist underneath him as a shimmer of sweat covered her skin.
He had peeled off the dress moments ago to reveal black lace undergarments. The bra had come off immediately and her slightly surprised moan at the first touch of his palms had pleased him to no end.
He made his way lower, continuing to kiss her stomach, and he slid his fingers down and across the silky fabric covering her curve. The fabric was moist, warm, and he murmured against her skin. Then he leaned down and pressed his mouth against her, licked where he knew her nub was, and was gratified with her wordless cry and the rocking of her hips into his open mouth.
She needed him inside of her. Days ago, she had wondered over and over again if it would be a mistake for them to become intimate. Now she just needed him inside of her. It felt as though she needed to move, to be filled, to grab hold of him. All these years they had kept each other at (almost) arm's length and now she needed to be as close to him as she could.
The problem was that his mouth was making it hard for her to breathe. When he pulled off the black lace panties and began sliding his tongue against her, she lost the ability to think. She was responding more quickly than she had expected, and he was deliberately coaxing her towards a climax. She reached out for him and he grabbed her wrist and pressed it against the bed.
Fine. If he wanted her to release against his mouth, then that's what was going to happen. Fairly soon. She wasn't one to complain.
When he slid a finger inside of her and began to press up against the front of her, a cry emerged. He added a second finger; she froze, and then he felt her throb around him. Gently easing back, he kissed her inner thighs, then made his way up her body to gaze into her face.
He had never seen her quite like this. Lips swollen, skin flushed, content eyes looking back up at him as she drew his face down for a kiss.
She was slick and wet as he slid inside. Her face was open, tense, needy as he pushed into her. Her leg wrapped around him and she was tilting her hips up when she froze and her eyes rolled back, then closed, and he felt her throb around him. She undid him.
After cleaning up, she went back into the bedroom to find him propped up against the abundant pillows, half covered by the sheets. Holding his gaze, she climbed back into bed and he shifted to bring her against his side, arm around her. As she nestled against him, he turned and engulfed her in his arms, burying his face against her hair.
"I wish that we could simply stay here forever, Beverly."
She smiled against his chest. "Me too."
And she was content there, in his arms, as she drifted off to sleep, lulled by his gentle breathing.
She woke in the morning to an empty bed. As she listened, she thought she heard noises from the kitchen. She got up and saw a dark blue robe laid on the chair by the bed. He must have replicated that for me, she thought with a gentle smile. She slipped it on and went to investigate.
Her legs were a bit sore. It was a good reminder of the previous night's activities. She entered the kitchen to find him pouring her a cup of coffee.
They sat beside the picture window, looking across the forest, snow capped mountains in the distance. She cupped her mug, sipping the rich brew.
"He was a widow. I didn't have nearly as much time there as you did in your experience. He wasn't you-" and she swallowed, nervous. Then she forced herself to continue, appreciating his patience.
"He made me think about possibilities. And then your message, and our conversations, and, well, here I am. So. Now what do we do?"