Can I write to you?
She stilled, puzzled. What did he mean? Wasn’t he writing to her already? Hadn’t they been texting for some time? It was a funny thing to ask after all that had already happened, definitely after yesterday!
She knew his office would be full of his grad students and few other professors with whom he was doing multi disciplinary research projects. His expertise in quantitative analysis was in great demand across the subjects, it shifted the burden of obscure data presentation away from those less comfortable with that side. There was something unique in the way he visualized information, he seemed to sense it as something living three dimensionally, something to poke and prod and test. In fact it almost seemed he treated most humans the way he treated research data, a curiosity to analyze and present and then put away in drawers and hard drives.
But she knew him differently, his hunger for connection and intense drive to escalate touch to raging insatiable passion. His face remained coolly disinterested when she knocked and quietly sat down at the back. There were only a few minutes left in the meeting, and everyone was trying to get their tasks done, get his input or approval, so very few even glanced at her. He nodded and murmured responses to the questions, but she knew he was watching her, and she smiled in the tingle of awareness. As the hour ended, people started closing their folders, gathering up papers, chairs scraped back and phones were checked. In groups they left, still in focused discussions, only one professor lingered, immersed in describing his project. He finally stood up and the professor also stood up with him, and without realizing, was ushered out of the conference room with polite finality, and the door was locked behind him after a final word. He went back to his chair and sat down, collected his own papers neatly and set them to one side, with his two pens laid diagonally across the top. Finally he looked at her. And let the fire in his eyes show, his gaze flickering over her as she stood up and walked towards him, pausing to push against his knees, then coming in close between them. She lay her hands on his shoulders, lightly caressing his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as he leaned into her, his breath warm against her navel through the thin summer dress.
His hands slipped up the scalloped hem and slid over bare warm thighs, curving hips and naked butt, kneading it, squeezing it, the tips of his long fingers grazing the fold, slipping in, teasing it from dimpled rear to smooth lips till they softened, moistened. And he imagined them, wet, glistening, waiting for him.
He swiveled in the chair, pulling her with him, his hands lifting her just enough to set her on the well polished deep mahogany desk. The hard wood was cool and smooth under her, and she let him push her legs apart, leaning back shamelessly as he raised her dress. She remembered how self conscious she used to be about being seen there, how her own body had seemed ugly, obscene almost grotesque in its dark unfurling folds. All the prejudice against brown wrinkled moistly puckered skin would make her body look repulsive and she would avoid showing herself, insisting she was not interested in being eaten, even as she willingly gave blow jobs. Was anything as absurd as that, to have denied herself the experience of feeling a man’s hair tickling the soft skin of her thighs, his breath warm and loving. Knowing he looked hungrily at that most secret part of her, craving and worshipping that part which gave him so much pleasure.
She used to get embarrassed by the easy oozing of her quim, having once set a mirror to watch the droplets appear and grow as she teases her clit with a finger. She blushed hotly at the thought of a man licking those little drops, worried what they smelled like, tasted like. Wondering if he would judge her, reject her based on that.
But he had worked on her reluctance, gently over several days, letting her get used to his hands, his eyes, his mouth. And now she could easily just lay back obediently as he pushed her down to lay flat on the desk, his mouth fastened on her clit, two fingers curved deep within her, stroking her, teasing her, bringing her to the edge and then backing off. Again and again till she felt her body ached with need.
“Write? Aren’t we a little beyond that?”
“No. I mean really write. I want to get to know you. Not just sex. In fact I want to meet you. Again not just for sex. I want to be with you.”
She froze, she didn’t want that at all.