Dear Lover,
What a pleasure it was running into you! How long has it been since we’ve seen each other? Six months? Eight months?

I can tell you now, from the relative safety of my desk, what I couldn’t tell you earlier:   it took every bit of strength I have to walk away from you, unsatisfied, tonight.

I will never forget the first time you turned your attention on me fully. I couldn’t help but be fascinated by you. It was one of those frigid winter nights, so cold that we were both bundled up in layer upon layer of clothing. Despite the fact that we were standing in a busy doorway, with people coming and going and watching our every move, you managed to turn me on in a matter of seconds with casual, unobtrusive touches that worked on me like magic and no one else saw.

Sometimes you were barely inches from my face, intentionally invading my space, but I didn’t care. I was mesmerized.

“This is a beautiful scarf,” you said, and reached for it, barely brushing my breast with your manicured fingers. That brief contact was so electrifying, I responded like a schoolgirl, laughing, glancing around and backing away, embarrassed. But I didn’t run. I stayed right there, hoping you would reach for my scarf again, reveling in the covert foreplay.

How many nights did we repeat that scene in the entryway before you finally pressed me for something more?

Enough time had passed for me to be standing outside wearing lighter clothing, sans scarf, I know that. That night, I thought you had gone home, so I was surprised and pleased to see you making your way toward me from across the parking lot. I should have known from the purposeful stride alone that something new was about to happen. I was set afire when, in one graceful movement, you took my hand, drew me away from prying eyes, and pressed me flat against a wall.

“I know you want to be kissed,” you whispered.

You couldn’t have been more right, of course. It came to me that whatever was about to happen between us would be better accomplished in my king-size bed, and when you suggested it, I didn’t hesitate to accept.

You followed me home, then, where you watched me while I lit an oil lamp, then you calmly stripped off your clothes, piece by piece, while I watched. What a gorgeous, tantalizing sight you were, as you carefully removed your silk tie, folding it meticulously before you unbuttoned your dress shirt, exposing the chest of a youth, hard and smooth and white from lack of sun.

I realized in a flash that you were much younger that I had imagined, and my knees turned to butter. Still, you were no boy. That was plain when you stripped off your pants and came for me.

Without speaking, you began to remove my clothes, your sure, strong hands businesslike and efficient, until I was as bare as you were and just as aroused.

And then the waltz began, and you whirled me around the dance floor that is my bed, your choreography perfect, and I followed your every step, entranced, until we both lay, spent and wet, in lamp-lit silence.

sistercyrano

letters to my lovers

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