Lips and Hips in Fevered Rhythm

For six years, the painter who’d dreamed of having me was finally in my embrace, showing me the wait wasn’t for nothing, that the longing wasn’t overstated…

Last night, Caleb surrendered to me. He’s mine, and I’m unraveling with it. Even strolling beside him, my arm looped through his, feeling the lean curve of his hips, the solid warmth of his torso where my cheek rested — he’s got to be nearly a foot taller than me — was enough to set me ablaze. Those hazel eyes, shimmering with devotion, those kisses that turned my knees to liquid.

We reached the hotel, and he began to undress me with deliberate care. My gauzy sundress slipped to the floor, followed by my cream linen shorts (yes, at thirty-nine, I can still pull off shorts, my legs sculpted and skin silken from Pilates, oils, and meticulous care — you know nothing’s effortless). I, in turn, tugged his Henley over his head, revealing the taut lines of his frame, and unbuckled his belt with trembling fingers (he left this morning, and the ache for him is already clawing at me).

In the bathroom, we stood before the fogged-up mirror, kissing fiercely, his head bowed so I could capture his soft, urgent lips. I guided him to the bed and took him in my mouth, savoring every shudder. There’s something electric about it — feeling him unravel beneath me, his breath hitching, his body pliant and wholly mine. His length grew harder against my tongue, my own desire pooling as one hand traced the ridges of his abdomen, the other circling my own sensitive spots. The air hummed with anticipation, the certainty of what would follow making every touch more intense.

I knew, after six years of stolen glances, this brilliant artist was finally mine. That pulsing hardness I teased with my lips would soon be buried deep inside me, whenever I chose to claim it. And I couldn’t wait any longer. With him stretched out at the bed’s edge, I straddled him, lowering myself slowly, inch by searing inch, until he filled me completely. Our eyes locked, my hands braced against his chest as I moved, each roll of my hips drawing gasps from us both. I rode him, clinging to him, my lips grazing his jaw, his throat, tasting the salt of his skin.

I rode him, aware that love isn’t singular, that the heart can hold space for more than one. That with him, I’d weave a life. My rhythm quickened, chasing the crest of my pleasure, until he moved with sudden grace, lifting me without breaking our connection. He turned us, laying me beneath him, his weight a delicious anchor. His thrusts were slow at first, tender, each one stoking the fire between us. His hands roamed—cupping my breasts, grazing my thighs — while his mouth found the hollow of my collarbone, drawing soft moans from me. The intensity built, his pace growing urgent, until he shattered inside me, our cries mingling in the dim room.

Still flushed, we didn’t bother cleaning up before heading out to eat. I chose lightly — a pear and arugula salad, a sliver of focaccia — knowing we’d return soon. Over the meal, we traced the six years of yearning, the near-misses, the reasons — saved for another chapter of this tale — why we’d held back. The conversation three weeks ago that changed everything. His quiet resolve to finally give in.

Back at the hotel, he called for a bottle of Dom Pérignon, paired with figs and dark chocolate (at thirty-four, he’s a celebrated muralist… and I recalled, just a week prior, footing the bill for another). As we waited, I sprawled naked across the sheets, watching the steam rise from the filling jacuzzi.

When he joined me, he shut off the tap and knelt between my thighs, his lips tracing a slow path from my navel to the sensitive peaks of my breasts, asking in a low murmur what I craved. His fingers followed, teasing, exploring, until I was arching beneath him, begging for more. He entered me again, this time with a reverence that made my chest ache, each thrust measured, deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. We moved together, bodies slick, until the wave crashed over me, pulling him along in its wake.

We sank into the jacuzzi, sipping champagne, the bubbles tingling against our skin. Later, we made love again, slower, languid, before collapsing into each other’s arms. He slipped away at dawn, but not for long — he’ll be back in my embrace, another day…

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