A Week Without Him and What Happened When He Came Back

There’s something about airports at night that makes me nervous in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s not the noise, or the screens with flights and destinations. It’s the waiting. That way time seems to stretch when you’re waiting for someone you need.

I’d gone seven days without Marcos. Exactly one week since I’d left him at that same airport with his rolling suitcase and a promise that it would be quick, that the work trip wouldn’t take longer than expected. It had lasted exactly as long as expected, which was too long.

I’d put on the reddest dress I owned. One made of fine fabric that clung to my sides and ended just above my knees. Black heels, matching lipstick. Underneath, a black lace set that made me feel damp gathering between my thighs just thinking about him. I wanted it to be the first thing he saw when he walked through that door: me, in red, not bothering to hide anything, my cunt already soaked waiting for him.

What I hadn’t told Marcos was that that day I’d gotten my period. It came in the morning, a week late, as if it had waited for the worst possible moment. Under other circumstances I would have rearranged plans, sent a message, suggested leaving the night for another day. But I’d spent seven days thinking about him. Seven days fingering myself in bed alone, imagining his cock inside me, coming against my bitten pillow so I wouldn’t scream. Seven days feeling incomplete in a way that goes beyond the emotional.

I wasn’t going to let that change anything.

When he appeared at the arrivals gate, something in my chest tightened. He walked with that calm pace he has when he’s coming back from a long trip, the suitcase trailing behind him, his eyes scanning the crowd. When he found me, the look on his face was reward enough for the whole week.

I walked straight up to him without hiding a thing. I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my nose in his throat, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin mixed with the airport and the weariness of travel. When I pressed myself against him, I felt the bulge of his cock already half-hard against my hip, trapped inside his pants.

—Seven days —I whispered in his ear—. Never again. I’m dripping, Marcos. I’ve been like this all afternoon.

—Promise —he said, his voice rough, and his hands locked around my waist with a pressure that told me everything I needed to know about how he’d spent that week too. He slid one hand down to the base of my ass and squeezed right there, in front of everyone—. I’ve had a hard-on since we landed.

We kissed there, in the middle of the terminal, not caring much who was watching. It was one of those kisses that makes no attempt at elegance: tongue, teeth brushing, his hand spreading over my ass cheek above the red dress.

***

The ride home was a mix of stray words and charged silences. My hand rested on his left thigh, and I could feel the muscle tense under his pant leg. I slid my fingers upward until I brushed the bulge and squeezed over it. Marcos clenched his jaw and his cock gave a little jerk beneath my hand.

Marcos kept his eyes on the road, but every now and then he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye with that half-smile I never quite know how to read.

—What are you thinking about? —he asked at a red light.

—About sucking you off right now, here in the car —I said, without stopping stroking his cock through his pants—. About things you don’t say out loud.

—Should you say them?

I rested my head on his shoulder and left my hand firm over his fly.

—Probably not.

When we got home, he helped me get the suitcase out even though it wasn’t his. Those are the kinds of details you don’t notice until you’ve missed them for a week.

***

We went upstairs together. On the landing of the first floor he pressed me against the wall and kissed me in a way that made me forget which step we were on. His hand slid under my dress, up the inside of my thigh, and found my panties. When he touched them, he groaned against my mouth.

—You’re soaked —he said—. Everything’s showing through.

—I told you I’d been like this all afternoon.

He pulled the lace aside with two fingers and slid them through the slit of my cunt, slick with my own wetness. He found my clit on the first try, as always, and traced slow circles that made me spread my legs against the wall. I felt his fingers searching for my entrance, sinking in a centimeter, coming back out shining.

I stopped his fingers.

—In the bed —I said.

—Why so formal?

—Because I want space. Because I want you to fuck me properly, not quickly on a landing.

We got to the bedroom and then I let him reach for the zipper. He lowered it slowly, tracing the line of my spine with the tips of his fingers. I felt the cool air of the room on my skin when the dress fell to the floor.

Marcos stood still for a moment, looking at me. I was wearing only the black bra and matching panties. He looked at me with the same attention he gives to things that matter to him: unhurried, without unnecessary gestures, his cock blatantly outlined under his pants.

—What? —I asked.

—Nothing. It’s just that sometimes I forget how much I’ve missed you until I’ve got you in front of me. Those tits. That cunt wetting my fingers two minutes ago.

I stepped closer and started unbuttoning his shirt. My fingers moved slowly, more for pleasure than haste. When it fell to the floor, I ran my palms over his chest, down his abdomen, and opened his belt. I tugged his pants and boxers down in one pull. His cock sprang free, hard, the tip already shining with precum. I took it in my hand, felt it hot and throbbing against my palm, and gave him two slow strokes while we kissed.

—You missed it, didn’t you? —he whispered against my ear.

—Every night —I told him, biting his earlobe—. Every fucking night.

I led him toward the bed.

***

We started slowly, like people who have time and know how to use it. Marcos unclasped my bra without rushing and took the time he needed with my breasts. He knows exactly what to do with them. That doesn’t happen by accident; it comes from years and real attention. He licked my right nipple with the tip of his tongue before taking the whole breast into his mouth and sucking it slowly. My nipples went hard instantly, and he moved to the left one, nibbling carefully, tugging it with his lips until I moaned.

I arched when I felt his mouth on my right nipple again, now with more pressure.

—More —I said softly—. Bite them.

He started moving lower. His lips followed my sternum, my navel, the edge of my panties. I let him do it. I knew exactly what was coming, and part of me was nervous in a way that had nothing to do with desire.

I should have told him earlier. Now it was too late to say anything.

He tugged my panties down with both hands and dropped them at the foot of the bed. For a few seconds he did nothing. He only looked. I had protection; I’d planned for it that afternoon when I dressed. But when Marcos started, it didn’t take him long to notice something was different. I felt the first lick, long and flat, from the bottom up to my clit. A rough groan escaped his throat. He went back down with his tongue, this time sliding it just barely inside, and that’s when he noticed.

He stopped.

I lifted my head. I saw him looking at me, eyes wide, the corner of his mouth smeared red.

There was a silence of exactly two seconds.

—Since when? —he asked.

—This morning.

Marcos processed the information. I could see him thinking. And then, instead of moving upward, he bent down again.

—Wait —I said—. You don’t...?

—No —he cut in. His tone left no room for more questions—. I don’t give a shit. I’m eating it anyway.

I lay back down. Closed my eyes. Felt his tongue pick up exactly where it had left off, with more determination than before. He pulled my cunt lips apart with two fingers and started sucking on my clit with his whole mouth, sucking it, letting it go, drawing circles with the tip of his tongue. He slid a finger inside me, then two, searching for that spot he knows better than I do. He curled them upward and pressed there, never stopping eating me from the outside.

—Fuck, Marcos —I gasped—. Fuck, fuck, don’t stop.

I forgot about the period, the sheets, everything that had been turning over in my head over the last week. There was only his tongue, his fingers going in and out with an obscene wet sound, and that heat rising from my thighs to my belly.

—Marcos —I said when I felt the heat gathering with no way out—. Marcos, I’m coming, I’m coming.

—Come in my mouth —he muttered against my cunt—. Go on.

I came with my hands clenched in his hair and my hips moving without my being able to do anything about it, pushing my cunt against his face while he kept sucking and driving his fingers deep. It was one of those orgasms that give no warning, that shake you from the inside and leave you trembling with your legs open and your heart pounding against your ribs.

When I opened my eyes, he was looking up at me from below with an expression that mixed satisfaction with something slightly wicked.

—You look ridiculous —I told him.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and looked at what was left on it. Then he looked at me.

—You make it hard to be offended —he replied.

I burst out laughing. He did too.

***

What followed was different from other times, not in the mechanics but in the tone. There was something more direct, less filtered. As if the seven days apart and the little surprise he’d found had stripped away the last bit of protocol between us.

I shoved his shoulder so he’d lie back. I grabbed his cock with my hand, hard and thick against my palm, and leaned down to suck him. I licked the tip first, tasting the fluid that had gathered there, and then took the whole thing into my mouth. I felt it hit the back of my throat and Marcos groan with a hand on my nape.

—Like that —he said—. Fuck, like that.

I gave him a slow blowjob, sliding up and down, letting saliva run down his shaft to his balls. I cupped his balls with my other hand and squeezed them softly while I kept taking his cock to the root. When I looked up, his eyes were closed and his mouth was open.

—Stop —he gasped—. Stop or I’ll come.

I climbed on top when he was ready. I took his cock, set it at the entrance to my cunt, and sank down slowly. I felt him filling me centimeter by centimeter. I noticed the contrast between pressure and heat, between the initial discomfort and the pleasure that replaced it almost immediately. When I had all of him inside, I braced my hands on his chest and stayed there for a moment, feeling him throbbing inside me.

—You’re so tight —he muttered—. Jesus fucking Christ.

I started moving. First up and down, then in hip circles, grinding my clit against his pubic bone on each downward stroke. I arched back so his cock would hit that spot deep inside me, and I closed my eyes.

—Slower —he said.

—I don’t want slow.

—I’m serious.

—Marcos.

—What?

—Shut up and let me fuck you.

He took me by the hips with both hands and let me set the pace, though his fingers marked when to slow down and when to speed up. That balance between giving up control and keeping it is something it took us time to learn together. I started bouncing on him harder, my tits bobbing in front of his face. He grabbed one and took it into his mouth without stopping his thrusts from below, sucking my nipple while he lifted his hips against mine.

The second orgasm hit before he’d reached the first. I felt the contractions shaking me from the inside out, my cunt tightening around his cock, while I folded over his chest and pressed my forehead to his shoulder. A muffled cry slipped out against his skin.

—That’s it —he gasped—. Come again on my cock.

—Wait —I said between breaths—. Give me a second.

—As much time as you need.

I gave him less than a minute. Then I lifted myself, felt his cock slide out of me slick and shining, turned around, and got on all fours on the bed. I looked over my shoulder. I heard Marcos moving behind me and felt his hands spread my ass cheeks to look at my cunt up close.

—Sure? —he asked.

—Yes. Put it all the way in.

I felt the tip sliding through the slit, searching for the entrance, and then the firm pressure driving in all at once to the hilt. I moaned into the pillow. He was slow at first. His hands on my hips were firm, not rough. He pulled almost all the way out and pushed back in until he hit bottom. Again. Again. When we reach that point it’s because both of us are in a place where words stop being necessary and what matters is contact, closeness, the weight of another body against yours, the sound of flesh slapping flesh.

—Like that, Marcos —I gasped with my face against the pillow—. Harder. Fuck me harder.

He sped up. His hips began smashing against my ass with an increasingly brutal rhythm. I felt one of his hands slide up my back, grab my hair, and tug me gently backward, forcing my spine to arch. The other hand dropped and found my clit, rubbing it with two fingers in the same rhythm as his thrusts. I moaned into the pillow. He made noise too, which is one of the things I love most about Marcos: he doesn’t pretend to be calmer than he is. Every time he went in to the hilt he let out a rough groan, and I tightened around him more and more.

—I’m going to come —he gasped—. Tell me where.

—Inside. Inside. Inside.

When he finally did, I felt it from very close, with his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades and his hands gripping my hips. I felt his cock swell one last time and then the contractions, the hot rush spilling inside me while he kept driving short, deep thrusts until he emptied himself completely.

***

We stayed still for a while. The window was slightly open and the noise of the night street drifted into the room. I lay on my side and Marcos settled behind me. I felt his seed sliding down the inside of my thigh, mixed with everything else.

I looked at the sheets. They were stained. For a moment I wondered what I was going to do with them.

—You okay? —Marcos asked.

—I’m very okay, actually.

—When were you going to tell me about your period?

I laughed.

—Probably never.

—Fair enough.

—Did it bother you?

He took a moment. With Marcos, silence means he’s actually thinking, not looking for the right answer.

—No —he said—. Not at all. I would’ve eaten it tomorrow anyway, and the day after, and every day of the week.

I turned him to face me. There was still a little red along his jaw. He looked perfectly at peace with it.

—You’re weird —I told him.

—I’ll take that as a compliment.

***

We didn’t sleep until much later. Marcos asked if I wanted to keep going, and I didn’t say it out loud, but I did. I grabbed his cock, which was already starting to thicken again against my hand, and looked him in the eyes while I stroked it slowly. Within a few minutes it was hard again, pressing into my palm.

This second time was completely different: face to face, slow, with no urgency at all. He opened my legs with his knees and pushed inside me in a slow thrust, and he looked at me the whole time as he settled over me. The kind of sex that isn’t just sex. The kind that carries something inside it that’s hard to name without sounding cheesy.

His eyes on mine the whole time. My legs around his waist, squeezing him so he couldn’t pull out. His hands holding my face at one point, and at another sinking into the pillow beside my head. I loved feeling his weight. I’d forgotten how much I loved feeling his weight on top of me, pressing me a little into the mattress while he went in and out with a slow, deep rhythm. Our mouths kept finding each other between thrusts. I felt his pelvis grinding my clit on every downstroke, and my hands kept going to his ass on their own, pulling him toward me, deeper, farther in.

—I love you —I told him at some point, without thinking too much about it.

—I love you too —he answered, and sped up just a little, as if those words had lit him up a bit more. He lowered his mouth to my neck and bit me just below the ear while he kept fucking me with that slow, deep cadence.

I came a third time without shouting, without sudden movements. It was like a tide, slow and complete, rising from my belly to my throat. I tightened around his cock in long waves while I dug my nails into his back. I felt him follow soon after, his face buried in my neck, groaning softly as he emptied inside me for the second time that night, and he stayed inside until his breathing returned to normal.

The sheets, by that point, were completely ruined.

—Tomorrow I’ll wash them —Marcos offered.

—Tomorrow we’ll just throw them out.

He laughed. So did I.

***

It was past two in the morning when we turned off the light. I stayed awake a while, listening to his steady breathing, feeling the warmth of his body against mine.

There are weeks when life is just weeks: work, commitments, a list that never ends. And then there are nights like this, nights that don’t announce themselves in advance and recalibrate everything else without asking permission.

I don’t know whether the period changed anything about what happened that night or whether it was simply the sum of seven days apart. It was probably both. What I do know is that when Marcos wrapped an arm around me and I nestled against his chest, I thought there are ways of being with someone that go beyond what’s comfortable and planned.

That desire, when it’s real, doesn’t distinguish between convenient and inconvenient circumstances.

And that seven days apart are exactly long enough to remind you that what you have at home is worth it.