“We were kids,” I told her over coffee. “We didn’t know what we were doing.”
“Don’t try to brush it aside just because we were young. And besides we didn’t do it terribly. Considering the chemicals rushing through our bodies and the thoughts rushing through our heads, we weren’t bad at all. I bet you’d give anything for a kiss like that again.”
We hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years, but somehow we came back to each other instantly. The touch of her hand, the smell of her perfume—still Chanel—and the rise of her lip when she poked fun at me were as familiar as the taste of the coffee.
“I’m just saying, we where what? Fifteen? We fumbled through everything, and I’m sure I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was doing, other than being desperate for your skin. Hell, desperate for your attention. Desperate for anything at all.”
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment, the look on her face so clear and easy that I almost loughed.
“You were sixteen. I was fifteen,” she reminded me. “And someone being desperate for my skin the way you were, would be… I don’t know what it would be. All I know is that I miss that longing, that worry, and that sense of wonder when everything was new. Christ, you must have spent an hour between my legs the first time, listening to me moan and as you tried everything you could think of to do with your tongue. There’s a lot to be said for enthusiasm. When was the last time you went down on a girl like she was magic?”
It was my turn to close my eyes and try to remember her taste. Try to remember the unbearable anticipation the first time I slid her panties off her hips, saw her brown curls and soft lips. Try to remember my heart beating like is hasn’t in years at the simple possibility of kissing a thigh and hearing a moan.
“We never even fucked,” I finally said, wondering as the words left my mouth if they meant anything at all.
“We didn’t think we were fucking, but we were so wrong. Your tongue, my hands, you knee between my legs, hell, it was all fucking. Your kiss was fucking. Your fingers in my hair were fucking. I don’t think we did anything else, even when we simply held hands beneath the table at dinner.”
“We were young,” I mumbled again, trying to remember the present. There was no point in nostalgia. No point in trying to get something back that we lost years ago. There was no point.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered, leaning in closely. I put my mug down and my whole body tensed as I sat upright. I had no idea what she was going to do, but my heart wouldn’t stop, and my head was spinning.
Without a word her mouth touched mine, her tongue pushing between my lips in a kiss that was tender, strong, and without any skill at all.
“What was that?” I asked, when she finally pulled away.
“That was me fucking you,” she said with a smile.