The rain had been falling since noon, a steady gray curtain that turned the late afternoon light into a bruised purple. Sarah wiped her hands on her jeans for the third time, a nervous habit she thought she’d outgrown in her twenties. The house, her house, smelled of lemon polish and the faint ghost of a roast chicken she’d made the night before—a meal for one. It had been seven years.
The doorbell chimed, a sound that cut through the heavy air and sent a jolt straight to her core.
She opened the door.
Mark stood on the porch, rain-darkened hair plastered to his forehead, shoulders broad inside a soaked denim jacket. He was twenty-two now, no longer the lanky teenager who’d helped her weed the garden one summer, his hands brushing hers a little too often, his eyes lingering a little too long. He was a man. His jaw was sharper, his frame filled out, and the way he looked at her now—steady, heated, knowing—made her breath catch.
“Sarah,” he said, and her name on his lips was a low, rough thing.
“Mark.” She stepped aside, pulse hammering. “Get in before you drown.”
He shrugged off the jacket, water dripping onto the hardwood, and she watched the movement of his shoulders, the way his t-shirt clung to the planes of his chest. He’d been a boy the last time she’d seen him, off to college with a shy smile and a handshake that had lingered a fraction of a second too long. Now he stood in her foyer, and there was nothing shy about the way his gaze traveled down her body and back up.
“You look—” He stopped, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Different.”
“Older,” she said, a dry attempt at humor.
“No.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the rain on his skin, the clean musk of him. “Better.”
Her throat tightened. She’d turned forty last month. Forty. And here was the boy next door, the one who’d mowed her lawn for extra cash, now looking at her like she was something to be devoured.
“I made coffee,” she said, retreating toward the kitchen, needing distance. “Or wine. It’s almost five.”
“Wine,” he said, following. “Please.”
The kitchen was warm, lit by the amber glow of a pendant light over the island. She poured two glasses of a rich Cabernet, her hands steady but her thoughts wild. Why had she agreed to this? A “reunion,” he’d said in his message. A chance to catch up. She’d told herself it was innocent. She’d told herself she was being ridiculous.
But when she turned, glass extended, he was right there. His fingers brushed hers as he took the wine, and the touch was a spark, a live wire.
“You’re nervous,” he said, not a question.
“I’m not.” She took a sip, the wine sharp and dark on her tongue. “I just… it’s been a long time.”
“Seven years.” He didn’t look away. “I thought about you. A lot.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. Sarah set her glass down, the clink too loud in the silence. “Mark, I don’t think—”
He closed the distance between them, one hand coming up to cup her jaw, the touch gentle but insistent. “Don’t think,” he murmured, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “Just feel.”
She should have stopped him. She should have laughed it off, made a joke, retreated to the safety of her well-ordered life. But she didn’t. The heat of his palm against her skin, the raw hunger in his eyes—it ignited something she’d buried for years. Loneliness, maybe. Or desire. Pure, unadulterated want.
His mouth met hers.
The kiss was not tentative. It was a claim, a deep, wet pressing of lips that parted her own with an urgency that stole her breath. His tongue slid against hers, tasting of wine and something darker, and she groaned into his mouth, her hands finding his waist, pulling him closer. He was solid, hard, his body a furnace against her soft curves.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down her throat, teeth grazing her pulse point. “I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against her skin. “Since I was seventeen and you wore that sundress in the garden. I wanted to pull it off you.”
The confession sent a flush of heat through her. “You were a child.”
“I’m not anymore.” His hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him. She felt the unmistakable hardness of him pressing against her belly, and her thighs clenched.
“Show me,” she whispered, the words escaping before she could cage them.
He lifted her onto the kitchen island with a grunt, the cool granite a shock through her jeans. He stood between her legs, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the denim up her hips. His eyes never left hers—dark, intense, devouring.
“I want to taste you,” he said, and the raw edge in his voice made her wet.
He unbuttoned her jeans with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing the waistband of her panties—black lace, something she’d put on this morning without reason, as if some part of her had known. He tugged the denim down her thighs, past her knees, and she helped him kick them off, leaving her bare from the waist down except for the thin strip of lace.
He knelt.
The sight of him there, on his knees before her, his hands gripping her thighs, his mouth descending—it was a fantasy she’d never admitted to having. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, higher, his breath hot through the damp fabric of her panties.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured, the words vibrating against her skin.
“Mark…” His name was a plea.
He hooked his fingers into the lace and pulled it aside, and then his mouth was on her. No teasing, no prelude—just the flat of his tongue dragging up her slit, collecting her moisture, making her gasp. He laved her clit with slow, deliberate strokes, his hands spreading her wider, his mouth working her with a skill that betrayed experience.
She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his wet hair, guiding him where she needed him most. He groaned against her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine. His tongue circled her clit, then flicked, then pressed flat, and she was trembling, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
“Close,” she managed.
He didn’t stop. He sucked her clit into his mouth, his tongue a relentless pressure, and she shattered, her orgasm ripping through her in waves, her cries filling the quiet kitchen. He drank her in, lapping at her until she slumped, boneless, against the granite.
He stood, his mouth glistening, his pupils blown wide. “More,” he said.
She slid off the island, her legs shaky, and took his hand. “Bedroom.”
They stumbled through the house, shedding clothes as they went—his shirt, her bra, his jeans, a trail of cotton and denim leading to her queen-sized bed. The rain had picked up, hammering against the window, but inside the room was a cocoon of heat and shadow.
He laid her on the bed, his body covering hers, skin to skin. She felt the weight of him, the hard planes of his chest against her soft breasts, the rigid length of him pressing against her thigh. She reached down, wrapped her fingers around him, and he inhaled sharply.
He was thick, heavy, the skin hot and silken. She stroked him slowly, watching his eyes flutter shut, his jaw clench. “I want you inside me,” she said.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of him nudging her slick folds. “Look at me,” he commanded.
She did. And he pushed in.
The stretch was exquisite, a fullness she hadn’t felt in years. He filled her completely, inch by inch, until he was seated deep inside her. He paused, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed to hers.
“God, Sarah,” he breathed. “You feel… incredible.”
“Move,” she whispered.
He did. Slow at first, deep thrusts that rocked her into the mattress, his hips rolling against hers. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, his pace quickening. The sound of their bodies meeting—wet, rhythmic, primal—filled the room.
He shifted, angling his hips, and hit a spot that made her cry out. “There,” she gasped. “Right there.”
He drove into her, harder now, his hand sliding between their bodies to rub her clit. The dual stimulation was too much, too perfect. She felt the coil tighten again, her muscles clenching around him.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice strained.
She did. Her orgasm crashed over her, a blinding wave, and she felt him follow, his own release hot inside her as he buried his face in her neck and groaned her name.
They lay tangled afterward, sweat cooling on their skin, the rain a soft lullaby against the glass. He traced lazy patterns on her hip, and she felt the ache of satisfaction between her legs.
“I should have kissed you seven years ago,” he said.
She smiled, a slow, secret thing. “You’re here now.”
He turned his head, his lips brushing her shoulder. “I’m not leaving.”
And in the quiet, in the dark, she believed him.
