Weeks later I’m back at the cafe, the place I met her the first time. Stands to reason she’d be here again. Sure enough, here she is, sipping an espresso, deeply engrossed in the newspaper.
I have a whole witty greeting prepared in my head, but seeing her like that, looking amazing in spite of the bags under her eyes, in yet another of her flowery dresses… I choke up.
I sit down in front of her, discreetly clearing my throat, hoping to catch her attention. No reaction. I do it again and it earns me a cold, brief glance that feels like a slap across the face. I deserve it though; I deserve every bit of her anger.
When she looks at me again, I play dumb and greet her with a cheery, “Hey, flower girl!”
That earns me another sneering dismissal. “It’s Karen, and you know that. Just like I know your name isn’t jeans-and-leather girl, but Jennie.” She pauses. “And what brings you here, Jennie?” Her expression is hard to read.
“Just checking in, I guess,” I reply.
“Seriously. This is my place. What are you doing here?” she asks. Behind the question I hear another one, clear as day: Haven’t you hurt me enough?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. I went way overboard with my reaction, I don’t know what came over me…”
“I’d say so,” she agrees. “Throwing flowers at a girl you’ve been fucking for the last few weeks is not how a 30-something woman should act.” Claws out, then. “But you can do something to apologize…” she adds, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
I raise an eyebrow, a silent question. She touches her lush lips with her fingertip. “Kiss me.”
“Kiss you…?” I stutter, momentarily floored.
She smirks. “You heard me. Put one on my lips and you’re forgiven. Think you can handle that, tough girl?”
Fuck buddies don’t kiss, but obviously she doesn’t mind rewriting the rules. It’s an unexpected demand but if it means she accepts my apology, I’ll kiss her.
Looking around the cafe, bustling with life as it always is at this time of day, I ask, “We gonna do this here?”
Her little pink tongue peeks out and wets her lips. “My roommate is gone for the week. Let’s go to my place?”
I agree. The brief walk feels uncomfortably long and is spent in tense silence. I don’t dare look at her, afraid of what I might see in her eyes but also afraid of what I might not see. Do I even know what I want? I feel like a teenager all over again.
As soon as she closes the door, I whip her around and kiss her, just a quick touch to the lips. Her breath hitches momentarily but then she smiles brazenly and asks, “That the best you got?”
If there’s anything I love it’s a challenge, but before I can show her what I’m capable of, she grabs me by the collar of my shirt and plants one on me. I’ve never been kissed that softly, that intimately, and it has my knees wobbling in a flash. “That’s more like it,” she says, her face lighting up.
How can she still be so in control when I can barely even stand? What’s with this girl that makes her so irresistible? She’s not even the type I usually go for. Her clothing is too bright and she’s shorter and stockier than I like in a girl, but she’s got me under her spell, and I can’t handle the feeling.
It’s time to turn the tables.
I grab her arm to pull her towards me and put all my skill, all my lust and need, into this one kiss. She starts whimpering into my mouth, her arms wound around my neck, and I grab her ass. One of my thighs shoved between hers, I use her ass to rub her up and down against it. Raw and primal, just how I like it. Who’s got time for this lovey-dovey stuff?
I’ve found out something about her, too. I’ve discovered she’s not above feeling a finger in her delicious behind. “Open your mouth,” I say, and almost regret it because feeling her tongue wrapped around my finger is enough to make me buckle for good. I’ve got a point to prove though.
She’s already well beyond wet and as much as I want to keep playing with her, I can’t. I gently slide my finger into her ass and as the amazing sensations tear through her body, I know it’s time for the coup de grace. A simple whispered command in her ear does it, one single word: “Come.” She can’t resist it and lets out a deep growl as an orgasm wracks her body.
I shove two fingers in her pussy, grab her hair and don’t stop until she’s come twice more and she’s a heap of twitching flesh, unable to speak.
She catches her breath, finally opening her eyes. “Stay with me,” she begs. And for a few seconds I’m tempted. I see something for us. But it isn’t enough…
An hour and a pack of cigarettes and half a bottle of vodka later I’m still furious with myself. I don’t know what buttons she pushes to make me lose control like this, but it’s an unfamiliar and unsettling feeling.
Isn’t this supposed to be easier? She shows up, we fuck, she leaves… Just lust, right? Lust, that’s a given; who wouldn’t lust after that lush, curvy body? Who wouldn’t want to fuck her until she can’t take any more, until her eyes roll back and she’s an exhausted, sweaty, happy mess? Sometimes she’s so tired I even let her sleep over. She’s so cute when she smiles in her sleep.
I’m not falling for her, am I? I can’t. I just can’t. And what’s more pressing, she can’t either. I’m a scrawny no-hoper putting my body through its paces with too much vodka and too much smoke. She deserves a fairy tale. But when I look in her eyes, I just want to pin her to the wall until I forget who I am.
Better to break it off while I still can, I think. Before it becomes too much. Better for me, but better for her, too.