Her name was Dana, and she was striking. She was Persian and Dutch with dark straight hair, a small nose, and caramel-brown eyes. The New England winters had made her very pale. When she walked over to my place, the cold made her look like she was blushing.
We were both in grad school, and we were both in long-distance relationships. I think that is why we spent so much time together; it was nice to be around someone of the opposite sex who was safe enough that flirting felt exciting, and only a little wrong. She would come to my apartment most evenings, and we’d work at the table together. Sometimes other students from our year would join us, and sometimes she would come over early, and we would cook together.
As I said, we would flirt, but we had some unspoken boundaries. If we brushed against each other in the kitchen—it was small—we would get embarrassed and apologize. If we were drinking while we were cooking, we would brush against each other more frequently, for slightly longer than we should, but that was it, that was as far as we would go physically.
One time we were making dinner for two friends in the department. Pasta: flour in a small mound with a crater, two eggs, olive oil. Kneading the flour until it felt like your skin after a day at the beach: textured but not gritty. She would roll the dough out, fold it on itself, and roll it again, thinner and thinner. I would cut thick and slightly jagged strips. Half of the wine for the sauce and half for us. By the time our friends came over, her teeth were a little red, and there were traces of flour on my forearms. My dining room table was better suited to two people, and so the four of us were crowded together, glasses of bad wine touching, knees touching. As we drank more, her hand would touch my arm and pause. Her hands were always a little cold. At some point, at some shift in the table, I pushed my chair an inch closer to hers, and our thighs touched, neither of us moved. It was such a small thing, but it was enough that I had trouble concentrating on the conversation.
It is impossible for four people to move around in my kitchen. So, Dana and I sat at the table while our friends washed the dishes. She told me that all of the guys at her high-school smelled the same: CK1, sweat, and cigarettes, and that even though she hated the smell of that cologne, ever-time she caught a whiff it made her nostalgic and a little horny. For me it was vanilla body lotion, which reminded me of my first girlfriend and making out in her backyard, listening the whole time for the screen door which would signal that her father was nearby. Then she remembered an ex who wore Royal-Lime. I told her my girlfriend wore this musky perfume: heady with amber. She had left over when she was last here and just smelling it made me hard. When I said that she smiled, her lips redder than normal. I don’t know if it was lipstick or the wine.
They brought coffee to the table and Dana went to the restroom. My face was warm from the wine. I looked up at Dana when she came back: she was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt with a white color and cuffs, a black skirt that went to her knees and black stockings. When she sat next to me, the scent flirted over, a heady amber. She had gone in my medicine cabinet. I was drunk with excitement, and everything moved a little slower for me. She pulled back her hair, and for a moment the back of her neck was bare. I watched her red lips move as she talked; I wanted my name in her mouth.
Someone spilled their coffee, but I couldn’t stand up to get napkins, my erection was almost painful. I shifted in my chair and brushed my thigh against hers and left it there. More talking. She put her hand in her lap, letting rest half on my thigh and half on hers. More talking. Her fingers were absentmindedly moving up and down, playing with the texture of my jeans. I tried to pay attention to the conversation, and I must have even contributed to it, but my focus was entirely on her fingertips.
Our friends were leaving and Dana should too: the dishes were clean, and it was late. As soon as I got up, I saw her eyes dart down to my embarrassingly obvious erection. That red smile. She put on her coat. Everyone was gathered at the door saying goodbye when she remembered she had left a bowl in the kitchen. “Go on without me,” she told them as she walked back into the kitchen. I closed the doors, and we could still hear our friends talking in the hallway when she steps back out. She hadn’t brought over a bowl. She was still wearing her open coat. We just stood like that, so close. My eyes on her lips, then that little dip where her throat meets her chest, down to the first button of her shirt. Her breathing.
“I want to fuck you,” I said.
Her mouth opened a little, but neither of us moved, then she said, “Tell me.”
That’s when I stepped closer, I had to bend my head, and I brought my lips to her ear. I could still hear our friends talking on the other side of the door. I said it again. “I want to fuck you. I want to press you against the door and put my hand up your skirt.” She was breathing harder. I reached up and unbuttoned one of the buttons of her shirt, just enough to see the pale start of her breasts. “You’ll have to be quiet so that they don’t hear.”
“Yes,” she said. But neither of us moved.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/7lc6ed/mf_dana_part_1_true_teasing_cheating