Warmth

The bell rings merrily as I push open the shop door. I’m overwhelmed by the warm scents of leather, furniture polish, and the faint but welcome aroma of pipe tobacco. Over all of it is the heady smell of fresh coffee wafting in from the cafe next door. 

We met in that cafe, reaching for the same drink. An Americano with cream. Our hands touched, just barely. Electricity. We laughed and of course he insisted he would wait for the next one. His eyes held me captive and we both ended up waiting. The small talk I usually find so awkward was easy with him. The weather, the traffic. 

We see each other several more times, once even sitting to drink our matching coffees, knees barely touching under the tiny cafe table. I confess to him that coffee is my little reward for getting through another battery of tests at the doctor’s office. He raises an eyebrow, “You’re here so often though?” He looks worried. “Auto-immune disease, they say, which means they really don’t know, but they want to keep doing tests. So I will keep drinking coffee,” I tell him. He takes my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “My shop is just next door, if you ever need anything. Anything at all,” he says.

He seems surprised to see me, but immediately puts his phone away and comes toward me, a smile on his face. My own face is cold from the biting wind outside, my eyes wide with tension and anxiety. I apologize, my voice shaking, I don’t want to impose. He reminds me of his invitation, stepping close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. I’m unable to meet his eyes. “Please,” he asks, “Look at me.” I take a deep breath and lift my head to meet his gaze. His eyes hold mine and I can’t hide the need I feel. He nods and wordlessly locks the shop door, and turns the sign to closed.

He takes me by the hand and guides me back to his office. It's cluttered and quiet, the sounds from the street muffled through thick concrete walls. When he slides the coat from my shoulders he notices the folded piece of gauze taped to the inside of my elbow. He runs his thumb gently just below the tape, raising an eyebrow in question.

I feel tears ready to fall. He pulls my forehead against his chest, and he too smells of leather, and more strongly of tobacco. I inhale deeply, and immediately I feel the knots in my shoulders loosening. He takes my face in his hands, kisses my forehead, the tip of my nose, then my lips. Gently, so gently, he treats me as if I might easily be broken into a thousand pieces. 

I press my lips harder against his, I don't want his gentleness or his sympathy. I’m tired of being fragile. I don’t want to think about tests, and scans and specialists. I want his mouth, his hands, his cock. I want the warm, coffee smell of him to replace the sterile, clinical smell of the doctor's office. I dig my hands into his sweater, trying to pull him closer.

He pushes me away, hands on my shoulders, looking hard into my eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this? With a man you’ve never shared more than a few cups of coffee with?”

“I want this,” I whisper without hesitation.

He slides his hands under the hem of my shirt, lifting it over my head. He kneels at my feet, unzipping my knee high boots and slipping them off, followed by my thick wool socks. He’s moving slowly, giving me time to back out if I change my mind. He unbuttons my jeans, lowers the zipper and pushes them down over my hips. From his knees he looks up at me, still questioning. I run my fingers through his thick hair and do my best to smile. Yes.

He stands up and turns me around, pulling me tight against him. He runs his hands down my arms, across my hips and my belly, leaving warm trails across my icy skin. His mouth moves slowly from my ear, down my neck, across my shoulders. His lips are a soft counterpoint to the coarse, wiry hair of his beard. The contrast makes me shiver. His hand slides down into my underwear, slipping easily between my legs, I'm so wet for him already. His fingers make slow circles as I push my hips against him. I can feel the hard bulge of his cock pressed against me. His fingers slide deeper inside me, his thumb pressed against my clit. 

He unhooks my bra with one hand, and then pushes my underwear down and pushes me towards the sofa. I kneel on the seat, my belly pressed against the smooth leather. I rest my forehead against the cool concrete wall, waiting for him. I’m shivering slightly but I don’t know if it’s from the cold or the anticipation. I hear him shuffling around at his desk, looking for a condom.

And then he is behind me again, pressed against me, his breath warm against my neck. He enters me slowly, pushing in only half way, pausing, checking in. I tell him it's okay, I want this. Then he thrusts deeply, burying himself in me. I gasp at the size of him, the exquisite fullness. The warmth centered between my legs spreads slowly, up into my stomach, my chest. I can feel my cheeks flushing red. I’m vaguely aware of how much noise I am making, crying and moaning. My arms are locked against the back of the sofa as I try to press my whole body tighter against him. His fingers find my clit again, making slow, clockwise circles. His touch is maddeningly light, enough to get me to the edge but not enough to push me over. I try to press myself against his fingers but he pulls back. “What’s the rush?” he asks. He runs another line of kisses down my neck. I’m close to tears, needing to come. Please. 

His free arm wraps tightly around my shoulders. Finally, he increases the pressure, his fingers pressing hard against my clit. Quick, firm circles. It only takes a second before I’m pushed over the edge. He crushes me against him as his fingers continue to work. I come again and again. His fingers slow, letting me catch my breath. His arm around my shoulders is the only thing holding me upright. 

“Please, will you fuck me?” I ask, even though his cock has been buried in me this whole time. I can feel his smile as he presses his face against my neck. He thrusts hard into me now, all his gentleness forgotten, his fingers dig into my hips. He pulls out almost all the way before slamming deep inside me. Over and over. This is what I wanted, what I needed. My fingers leave scratch marks in the leather. His teeth lock on to my shoulder, the pain sharp and sweet. He thrusts one last time and his body goes rigid. A groan escapes from somewhere deep in his chest.

He wraps his arms around my waist, resting against me. The concrete wall feels colder now against my sweat soaked skin. All I can smell is him, us. Coffee, leather, tobacco.

“Will I see you again,” his mouth is pressed against my ear.

 I tell him that my test results should be back next week. 

His arms tighten around me and he kisses my neck softly.

“I’ll be here.”

Photo by Kseniya Buraya