Electricity
The power was out when she got home, the air conditioning as well. She sighed; it was hot outside, hotter in the apartment. He was coming, was on his way. They had texted each other back and forth all day, ramping each other up to the point that she had finally told him to come over after work, that she couldn't be alone with only thought and words tonight.
She dropped her purse to the floor and went to the window, shoving it open; a wall of warm evening air rolled in against her. She sighed and felt her temperature rising, slowly but surely.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a tall glass of ice water, then dragged the office chair next to the window and sat down, trying to cool herself off. The breeze had the opposite effect; it was thick, humid, draining. A drop of condensation fell from her glass and landed on her shirt. As though the idea had just come to her - thought she had been thinking it on and off all day- she peeled it up and over her head and dropped in on the floor. The next droplet hit her navel and set a cold stabbing downward that she did dislike.
It was hot; she could feel sweat on her upper lip, under her arms, between her breasts. She unhooked her bra and let it fall, but there was no relief. She stood and squirmed out of her pants. Her inner thighs were sweaty, the crack of her ass. She loved the heat, she loved the sweat of her body, the salt. She loved the taste and feel of it on her skin, but more especially the feel of someone else's. Her thoughts went to him; she took up her phone and reread their texts from the day, feeling the familiar flush, the butterflies between her legs.
This was not working, she realized. Hooking her thumbs into thin silk, she lifted her ass up off the chair and slid her increasingly wet panties down and off, kicking them from the toe out into the middle of the room. She was flushed, warm to her own touch. The evening air poured over her like lukewarm water.
As if on cue, her phone bleeped. His text, he was downstairs. He was here. Her nerves fluttered. After far too long, there was light knock on the door. It's open, she said, her voice so soft she wasn't sure it carried, but then the door was open, and he was there, closing it behind him, smiling at her.
She swiveled the office chair to give him a full view of what she had been teasing him with all day. Without a word, he moved toward her, unbuttoning his shirt, lowering himself. He kissed her on the lips, open mouthed and minty. She could smell his sweat, and something deeper underneath it; his need.
The stubble of his chin scraped her lips and sent fire down her body as they bit and kissed. He dragged his face down her body, the stubble like sandpaper on her skin, over her nipples, her stomach, between her legs. He lingered millimeters from her, inhaling her scent, her sweat and salt; she could feel his breath hot on her lips, her inner thighs.
He studied her; she had tormented him all day with this very object now in his face, within kissing distance. He wanted to know it before he partook; he lay his head on her inner thigh and looked, he breathed her deep, his fingers brushed and pressed. He could feel her body respond, tense and relax; he heard the heavy breaths and felt them in his hair.
And then, two fingers on each side of her, he split her and blew lightly on her. She shivered, and felt a trickle of sweat run down between her breasts, down to pool in her navel. His tongue, when it touched her, was hotter than the room, hotter than the day. Her fingers dug into his hair, pulled him against her. He responded by placing his hot hands behind her knees and lifting her legs, her knees brushing her nipples.
His tongue plunged into her, tasting the smooth velvet of her walls, and then back out to slide down toward her ass. The taste of her salt, her tang, filled his mouth and every nerve called out for attention, for release. He pushed back into her, grinding his face against her. His tongue, the stubble; she was crawling out of her skin. She held him by the ears, firmly planting his face where she had needed him all along, since the morning or perhaps even before that.
There was more of him she wanted, of course; she had thought about his body, his fingers, his cock. But right now, all she could think of was the depth of his tongue. She rocked her hips on his face, whimpering without realizing. Suddenly another need overtook her, and she pulled him up and lunged at his mouth, sucking lightly on that tongue that had swum in her like an eel. She tasted what he had tasted, and the thrill of it made a tremor slide through her. She sucked his tongue clean of her, and then pushed him down again,
down her sweating, vibrating body, pulsing and hungry.