I met her in a bookstore.
Not in the romance aisle, not in some dim-lit corner that made what happened later feel fated. No, we met by the nonfiction shelves—"Body & Mind." She reached for the same title I did, The Language of Skin, and smiled when our hands brushed.
"You take it," I offered, a little too quickly.
"You sure?" she asked, fingers still on the spine.
“I probably just liked the cover,” I lied.
But she knew I was curious. Maybe not about the book—but about touch. About my body. About the strange hunger I’d never learned how to feed.
She was older.
Not by much, but enough that her presence felt settled, like she knew where she belonged in the world. Her hair curled down to her shoulders in soft waves, and when she spoke, her voice had the kind of depth you lean into without realizing.
We talked for fifteen minutes in the store. Then she asked, “Do you want to come over for tea?”
I hesitated.
She smiled.
“It’s not a line. Just… you look like you’re ready to stop apologizing for wanting.”
I followed her home.
Her apartment was quiet, filled with books and warm light. No TV. Just the smell of jasmine and something slightly citrus. She handed me a mug, then curled up on the couch across from me like we’d done this before.
“Have you ever made yourself come?” she asked, as casually as someone might ask if you cook.
I blinked. My fingers tightened around the mug.
“Yes,” I said.
Then, “I think.”
She tilted her head. “You think?”
I looked down. “I’ve… felt things. But not… all the way. I don’t know if I’m doing it right.”
She didn’t laugh. Didn’t lean forward like she wanted more. She just sipped her tea and nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”
When she kissed me, it wasn’t fast.
She set her mug down first. Then came over. Sat next to me, thigh to thigh. Her hand found mine, her fingers warm. She touched my chin, turned my face gently toward hers, and kissed me like it was okay to be kissed that slowly.
My lips parted for her. My body melted before I gave it permission.
She whispered against my mouth, “Let me show you.”
She led me to her bed—white sheets, soft pillows, no rush.
“Take off your clothes,” she said, and I did.
I stood there, naked and unsure, the way I’d never let myself be in front of anyone. She undressed slowly—pulling off her sweater, letting it fall from her shoulders like it belonged on the floor.
Her breasts were full and heavy, the kind you want to fall asleep between. Her skin was soft, dimpled, real. And still—she glowed.
She lay me down first.
She started with my collarbone. Lips brushing, tongue tracing, breath warming every inch.
“Your skin’s sensitive,” she said. “You just haven’t been taught where.”
Her fingers drifted down to my ribs, followed the line to my hips.
She didn’t go straight to where I was aching. She circled me with her mouth, kissed the inside of my thighs, the space just above my mound, the tender crease of my pelvis.
“You’re already wet,” she whispered.
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
When her tongue found me, I gasped. She paused. Looked up.
“Stay with me,” she said. “Feel every second.”
Her tongue was patient. She flicked, licked, tasted me like a recipe she already knew by heart. And when she slid one finger inside me—slow, curved just right—I clenched around it like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to this planet.
I came shaking. Softly. But so deeply I cried.
Not sobbing.
Just tears.
Tears because I hadn’t known my body could feel that much and still be mine.
She pulled me into her arms. Kissed my forehead. Let me breathe against her collarbone like we’d known each other for years.
And then she whispered, “Next time, you’ll show me.”
