Three Tables Between Us, and He Still Undressed Me

I didn’t go to that place looking for you. I swear it on the little pride I have left. I went because it was Wednesday, because I was hungry, and because the place was on the way between the office and my house. I ordered my usual, sat by the window, and opened my phone so I wouldn’t look at anyone. I’d spent two years practicing that art: not looking, not remembering, pretending your name was just another word and not the only one I knew how to moan with my mouth full of your cock.

And then I looked up.

You were three tables away from mine, in profile, with your nephew sitting across from you. The kid had dropped a napkin on the floor and was making a scene over something only children can understand. You pinched his ear, gently, with that steady touch of yours that never quite hurt. Then you smiled at him, ruffled his hair, and bit into your hamburger as if the whole world fit inside that gesture.

It can’t be him. Not here. Not today.

But it was you. I recognized the way you rested your elbow on the table, the way you tilted your head when something amused you. I recognized, above all, your hands. Those hands knew my pussy better than I did, had pried my thighs open in rooms that no longer exist for anyone but me, had shoved two fingers to the hilt while you covered my mouth so I wouldn’t scream.

I lowered my gaze to my plate. It was useless. When I looked up again, you had already turned your face toward me.

***

What we had never had a name, and that’s why it was impossible to bury. We weren’t lovers. We weren’t friends. We were that dangerous in-between thing built in the small hours, in deleted messages, in meetings we swore would be the last. We met at the wedding of people I don’t even remember anymore, and by the time the guests left, you already had me against the bathroom wall with your hand under my dress and two fingers pumping in and out of my soaking cunt.

For months I had you without having you. You showed up when I least expected it and vanished just when I started needing you. I learned to live on the edge of that uncertainty, to crave the sound of your car on the street, to hate you a little every morning and forgive you every night by sucking your cock until you came in my mouth. We ended it because we had to, because there were other lives tied to ours, because going on would have set too many things on fire. We ended it the way you stop breathing underwater: by force, lungs burning.

And now there you were, eating a hamburger, looking at me as if two years had been nothing more than a long pause between two sentences of the same conversation.

***

I saw you swallow. I saw you wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb, bring it to your lips a second too long. You knew I was watching. Of course you did. You always knew exactly the effect you had on me, and you never had the decency not to use it.

Your nephew got up and ran off to the play area in the back, leaving you alone at the table. You only had two bites left. Your light-framed glasses were slipping down your nose and you did nothing to push them back up, as if you knew that little careless detail turned me on too.

Then you did something that split me in two.

You lifted the top half of the burger slowly and poured on the sauce until it nearly overflowed. You set the bun back in place and took a slow, measured bite, one that let the dressing run from the corner of your mouth and drip onto the plate. You didn’t take your eyes off me for an instant.

I stopped eating. I couldn’t help it. My chest tightened all at once, as if someone had clenched a fist right behind my ribs. I felt my body, that traitor it had taken me so long to tame, begin to awaken every sensation I believed I’d buried forever. My nipples hardened against the bra, my cunt started throbbing between my legs, and I felt my panties growing damp little by little, with nothing I could do to stop it.

And you finished me off when you opened the burger again. You dipped your middle and ring fingers into the sauce, pulled them out white and shining, streaked with a thread of tomato, and held them up for a second so I could see everything.

I watched your lips part. I watched your tongue slide over your fingers, circle them, trap them in your mouth with a calm that was anything but innocent. I watched you suck them down to the knuckle, pull them out slowly, slide them back in as if they were something else. I watched your eyes close for just an instant, the way you used to when you were inside me and wanted the moment to last, when you filled my pussy to the hilt and stayed still so you wouldn’t come yet.

You smiled at me with your mouth still dirty. You wiped your fingers on the napkin. And you winked at me.

That was all I needed to know I’d be yours again.

***

The rest happened in the language only we spoke. You stood up, went to get your nephew, bought him an ice cream, and said something that made him laugh. You passed by my table on your way out. You didn’t stop. You only let it fall, in a low voice, without looking at me:

—The back parking lot. Ten minutes. And come with your panties already wet, because I know they are.

And you kept walking as if you hadn’t just burned two years of discipline to the ground with fifteen words.

I stayed rooted to my chair, my heart pounding against my throat and my cunt throbbing so hard I was sure it could be heard. I knew I should stay. I knew all the reasons; I’d repeated them like a rosary every night for months. But the body has its own memory, and mine only knew how to obey you, spread its legs, and let itself be fucked by you.

I waited the ten minutes. Counted them on the restaurant clock, one by one, while I stirred my food without tasting it and pressed my thighs together under the table. Then I paid, stepped out into the cold afternoon air, and went around the building to the back, where cracked asphalt and the shadow of a wall guarded an intimacy no one had asked for.

***

Your car was at the far end, the windows already fogging up. The boy wasn’t there; I learned later you’d left him with your sister, who lived two streets away, under the excuse of a quick errand. You were always good at making up excuses. I was good at believing them.

I opened the door and sank into the passenger seat. For a second neither of us said anything. We looked at each other like two people who recognize each other after a long time and are afraid a voice will break the spell.

—Two years —I said at last.

—I know —you answered.

—We shouldn’t.

—I know. But open your legs.

And then you kissed me, and all the speech I had rehearsed came apart in my mouth like wet sugar.

Your lips tasted like sauce, like salt, like something sweet I couldn’t name and didn’t want to. You held the back of my neck with that hand that remembered every inch of me, and with the other you yanked my skirt up without asking, without pretending at gentleness. Your fingers climbed my inner thigh and found the wet fabric of my panties. You smiled against my mouth.

—Soaking wet. As always —you murmured.

—Shut up and touch me —I bit your lower lip—. You’ve owed me for two years.

You pulled the fabric aside and shoved your middle finger into my cunt in one hard thrust, all the way in. A rough moan slipped out of me and bounced off the fogged-up windows. My cunt clenched around your finger as if it had never stopped recognizing you, and you let out a low laugh that prickled the back of my neck.

—Still just as tight, fuck —you said—. And you’re already dripping all over my hand.

You added a second finger. Then a third. You opened me slowly, with that calculated technique of yours, pumping me while you rubbed my clit with your thumb, that rhythm that had made me come more times in three minutes than any other man ever had in a whole night. I clutched the fabric of your shirt like someone grabbing the only solid thing in the middle of an earthquake, and spread my legs wider so you could fuck me with your fingers to the knuckle.

—That’s it, you son of a bitch —I panted—. That’s how I remembered it.

—You remembered this? —you pulled your fingers out, shining with me, and put them to my lips—. Suck. Taste what you’ve been denying me for two years.

I opened my mouth and sucked your fingers the way you’d sucked yours in the restaurant. I circled them with my tongue, licked them from top to bottom, made them dirty with saliva while looking straight into your eyes. I tasted like me, like salt, like hunger. Your jaw was trembling.

—I missed you —I admitted when you pulled your fingers from my mouth, hating how true it sounded.

—Every day —you said—. Every time I jerked off I thought about your mouth. About the way you opened it. About how you swallowed.

***

My hand went down to your belt. I undid the buckle slowly, savoring your impatience, finally giving you back some of the game you’d played with me inside the restaurant. I lowered the zipper and reached into your underwear. There you were, hard, hot, throbbing against my palm, the tip already wet with that drop I always loved to lick from you.

—Fuck —I said, squeezing you in my fist—. You didn’t even forget how long it is.

I stroked you from top to bottom, unhurried, looking into your eyes the same way you’d looked at me while sucking your fingers. I felt you swell under my hand, heard the groan that escaped you when I reached the head, saw you close your eyes and throw your head back against the headrest. I gathered the moisture from the tip with my thumb and brought it to my mouth.

—You’re cruel —you said, voice rough.

—I learned from the best.

I leaned over the gearshift and took you into my mouth in one motion, all the way to the throat, without warning. I heard you choke out a curse and grip my hair with both hands. I started sucking you the way I remembered you liked it: lips tight at the base, tongue teasing under the frenulum, slowly climbing to the tip and back down again, swallowing you whole. Every time I got to the bottom, you shoved my head a centimeter farther, and I let you because I wanted to feel you deep inside, wanted to choke with you, wanted my eyes to fill with tears while you fucked my mouth.

—That’s it, baby, that’s it —you panted—. God, two years waiting for this mouth.

I sucked you until I felt you were close. Then I pulled off, looked at you with my lips shining with spit, and licked the head in one long stroke.

—Don’t you dare come yet —I said—. Not yet.

—Get on top —you ordered, panting—. Get on top now, fuck.

You reclined the seat. I tore off my panties in one yank, climbed over you as best I could in the car’s cramped space, with my skirt hiked to my waist and my breathing already broken. I took hold of you with my hand and guided myself over your cock, resting the tip at the entrance to my cunt. We stayed like that for an instant, suspended on the edge, knowing that crossing that line meant reopening everything we’d worked so hard to close.

—One more time —you whispered, as if it were a promise and not a lie we’d already told a thousand times.

—One more time —I repeated.

And I dropped down hard.

I felt you split me open completely, rise inside me to a place that had been empty for two years, fit into me like the last piece of something that had never should have been taken apart. I screamed against your neck. You dug your fingers into my hips so hard I knew I’d have marks the next day, and I thanked you in advance.

—You’re full of me again —you panted into my ear—. Look at your cunt swallowing me whole. Look how it fits you.

I started moving on you slowly, up and down, letting you slide almost all the way out before spearing myself to the hilt again. Every time I came down, the base of your cock hit my clit and a fresh moan slipped out of me. Your hands slid under my blouse, yanked my bra up, and found my tits. You pinched my nipples in the same rhythm I rode you, twisting them just enough to send the pleasure straight into my belly.

—Faster —you growled—. Fuck me faster, I’ve been imagining this for two years.

I obeyed. I braced my hands on the car roof and started bouncing on you with all my strength, my skirt stuck to my sweat-damp skin, my breasts moving in front of your face. You sucked one, then the other, biting my nipples every time I came down, and I felt the orgasm begin to gather in the pit of my stomach, taut, close, imminent.

—I’m going to come —I said through clenched teeth—. I’m going to come all over your cock like a bitch.

—Do it —you told me, grabbing my ass with both hands and driving me against you—. Come. Soak me. Let it show on me all afternoon.

I dug my nails into your shoulders and came on you, biting your lip so I wouldn’t scream. My cunt clenched around you in waves, tugging your cock deeper inside, and you held on through those seconds with a discipline I barely recognized. When the trembling started to ebb, you gripped my hips, lifted me just a little, and started fucking me from below, with short, fast, brutal thrusts.

—My turn now —you panted—. Now I fill you.

—Inside —I begged, because you’d always been able to make me ask for it—. Come inside, please. I want to get out of this car with your cum running down my thighs.

That was all it took. You went rigid beneath me, drove your fingers into my hips, and came with a long groan against my shoulder. I felt every pulse, every hot spurt filling me from within, and I pressed myself against you so I wouldn’t lose a single drop. You murmured my name with a devotion nobody had used in two years, and I felt the semen already starting to leak from where we were joined.

***

Afterward we stayed still, stuck together, hearts racing, sanity slowly returning like the tide. I still had you inside me, you were still leaking slowly between my thighs, your hands were still tracing my sweaty back beneath my blouse. I knew how this ended. We’d lived it before. There would be the awkward silence, the clothes being put back in place, the warm promise that this time would be different, and then weeks, months, the slow return to the habit of not looking at each other.

But that afternoon I decided not to think about it. I rested my head on your chest, listened to your breathing steady, and let myself, for a while, believe the only lie that truly mattered to me: that some things come back because they never really left.

I didn’t go to that place looking for you. But I left your car with torn panties in my pocket, your semen running down my legs inside my stockings, the taste of your cock still in my mouth, knowing I’d be back the following Wednesday, at the same hour, by the same window. And that, if luck and desire agreed again, three tables wouldn’t be enough to keep you away from me.