The Morning Rendezvous
The phone rang exactly at ten. His voice was a low rumble, telling me he was on his way. I warned him not to honk the horn—the neighbors in our quiet American suburb had too many ears and not enough hobbies—but the anticipation was already humming under my skin.
He lived only five minutes away, a short drive that felt like an eternity. When I stepped out of the house, I saw the hunger in his eyes. I had dressed specifically to provoke him, wearing a sheer blouse that left nothing to the imagination regarding the state of my nipples in the cool morning air. He groaned, his gaze devouring me. “You’re cruel,” he whispered, “you know exactly how to drive me crazy.”
I didn’t answer with words. Instead, I reached out and gripped the heavy bulge in his trousers, maintaining contact as we walked to his car. We were both playing a dangerous game; he was married, and I carried a secret of my own—a wedding ring hidden in a jewelry box at home. The risk was the aphrodisiac.
The moment the front door of his house clicked shut, he was on me. He pressed his hardness against my backside, his hands claiming my breasts through the fabric. He kissed my neck with a desperate intensity, murmuring how much he had missed me. We moved toward the bedroom, where he quickly cleared a scattering of children’s toys from the bed. I watched him, thinking of the life he led in this room, and found that the transgression only heightened my arousal.
He pressed me against the wall, our reflection staring back at us from the mirrored closet. He pulled my breasts from my blouse, kneading them with a possessive grip. “Perfect,” he breathed, though he joked about a few centimeters of lift. We laughed, the tension breaking into a feverish heat. His hand slid down, grazing my thong, finding me already drenched. When he shifted the fabric aside and discovered I had fully shaved for him, his eyes darkened. “You’ve come prepared to be bad today,” he whispered.
The friction of his fingers against my clitoris pushed me to the edge. I clung to him, my legs trembling, until a violent orgasm crashed over me. I gasped, my body sagging, but he didn’t give me time to recover. He turned me toward the wall, lifting my skirt to expose my bare skin to the morning light.
He entered me with a single, powerful thrust, the sensation filling me completely. I cried out, my fingers gripping the headboard as he shifted his angle, pushing deeper and harder. The rhythm was frantic, a desperate exchange of need and power. He gripped my hair, pulling my head back as he hammered into me, calling me his favorite sin. I met every thrust, my own moans echoing in the room, my body vibrating with a pleasure so intense it felt like combustion.
We reached the peak together, a crashing wave of release that left us both breathless and spent. As I cleaned myself in the bathroom, his phone rang—work. The morning had been short, but the intensity had been absolute. As he dropped me off at my door at 11:10, he kissed me deeply. “Next time,” he promised, “I’m taking three hours.”
I smiled, stepping back into my house. Who says an hour isn’t enough to feel completely alive?