03 Erotic Story: Warm Hands, Late Friday
Sara and Tom had the house to themselves for the first Friday in two months. The kids were at a sleepover. He came home from town with a small brown bottle in his coat pocket and a quiet plan for the evening.
[Friday evening, the long way]
She found him in the kitchen, putting two glasses of wine down on the counter. The window above the sink was cracked open and the warm air came in.
"What's in the bag?" she asked.
He took out the bottle. Amber glass, plain label, a faint smell of something like vanilla and orange peel when he uncapped it. He put it down between the glasses.
"For us," he said. "If you want."
She picked it up. She knew without asking what it was for.
"Tonight?"
"Tonight."
She put it back down. She picked up her wine. She looked at him over the rim.
"Then I'm going to shower first," she said.
"Take your time."
She did. She washed her hair. She used the good lotion on her shoulders. She came back into the bedroom in his old grey t-shirt and nothing else, and he was already there, the lamp on low, two towels folded neatly on the bed.
"Look at you," she said. "Organised."
"I had time on the train home to think about it."
She laughed.
"Lie down," he said.
She raised an eyebrow.
"On your stomach," he said. "I want to do you first."
She slid the t-shirt over her head and lay face down on the towel. She rested her cheek on her folded arms and watched him through one eye while he warmed the oil between his palms. The smell of it filled the room.
He sat next to her, one knee against her hip, and put both hands on her shoulders.
She made a sound she didn't know she still made.
"That bad?" he said.
"That bad."
He worked the muscle along her neck first, slow, with the heel of his hand. He moved across the tops of her shoulders. He found the place she always carried at the base of her skull and pressed a thumb into it until it gave.
Her eyes closed.
He worked his way down her back in long strokes, both hands together, ending at the small of her back and lifting off and coming back to her shoulders to start again. The oil made his hands move in a way they couldn't normally — gliding, unhurried.
He passed each side of her ribs. He massaged the soft place above her hips slowly, deliberately, until her breathing changed.
He didn't go between her legs. He went down. The backs of her thighs, the place behind her knees, her calves. He used both hands and a lot of oil and his hands were warm and slow and she felt her hips press into the towel without meaning to.
She heard herself sigh.
"Tom."
"Mm."
"You're being terrible on purpose."
"I'm being thorough."
She smiled into her arm.
He came back up. He worked her thighs. He took his time about it. He let his fingertips graze where she wanted them and then went back to her hip, and she made a small frustrated noise into the pillow that he heard and ignored.
"Turn over."
She turned over.
He poured oil in his palm again. He warmed it. He started at her shoulders, her collarbones, the soft place at the base of her throat. He circled her breasts without touching her nipples. He kept going — ribs, stomach, the dip of her waist. He kissed her hip bone once and kept moving.
By the time his hand finally settled between her legs she was already aching for it.
He kept the rhythm of the massage. Slow. Long. Deliberate. He watched her face. He didn't speed up when she lifted her hips. He didn't change anything until she said his name like a question.
Then he bent down and used his mouth.
She came with her fingers in his hair, slow and long, the kind that started low in her belly and pulled everything else with it. She felt herself shake.
He kissed the inside of her knee. He waited there a moment, his cheek against her thigh.
"Your turn," she said. "Get up here."
He climbed up. She rolled them so he was on his back. She straddled his hips and reached for the bottle.
"Hand," she said.
He held it out. She poured oil into his palm and folded his fingers around it.
"Hold that for me."
She took her time with him too. Chest. Stomach. The place at his hip where she knew the muscle knotted from sitting at a desk. She worked it out with both thumbs. He made a sound she liked.
She poured oil into her own hand and warmed it. She wrapped her fingers around him slowly.
He exhaled like he'd been holding it.
She moved her hand the way he'd moved his — slow, even, the oil making everything long and silken. She watched his face change. She watched his jaw set. She watched his hand find her thigh and grip.
"Sara — "
"I know."
She slowed. Then she lifted onto her knees and lowered herself onto him.
Both of them stopped breathing for a second.
They moved together without rushing. She kept her hands on his chest. He kept his hands on her hips, warm and slick. The window was open and they could hear a car go by, slow, somewhere down the road, and then nothing again, just the two of them.
He sat up under her at some point and they kissed like that, slow, while she moved on him, and his arms were around her back and his face was at her neck. She felt herself climb again.
She came against his shoulder this time. He came not long after, holding her against him, his forehead at her temple.
They didn't move for a while. The lamp threw a yellow circle on the ceiling. The air through the window was warm.
"Sara."
"Mm."
"We should have a bottle of that in every drawer in this house."
She laughed into his collarbone.
"What time is it?"
"Don't know."
"Good."
He held her there. She closed her eyes against his shoulder. The kids weren't home until tomorrow.
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Sara and Tom have been married a decade. Tonight was supposed to be just dinner — they were ready to call it an early night. They didn't. What happened next is the kind of evening every long-term couple secretly wants.
Sara and Tom finally ordered the toy they'd been joking about all year. When the package landed on the kitchen table, neither of them quite knew what to do. So they did the only sensible thing: they took it upstairs.
