The Liège waffles dusted with cinnamon and drizzled honey wasn’t the only reason that Paolo’s became my favourite café. Mia contributed, all smiles and freckles on sun-kissed cheeks.
She raises an eyebrow, pen poised, lid chewed. “The usual?”
Bubbly, cheeky, and 90210 cute, those Mediterranean features and accent boost her allure. I pause. Not because I’m considering the answer but to lose myself a moment longer in eyes forged from the adjacent sparkling bay.
The first afternoon, she’d asked what a handsome older gent was doing in town. Ha! I’m hardly old. She mouthed the word ‘sabbatical’ as I outlined our impromptu gap year so far, trying not to notice how every lithe curve hugged her U-neck top and messy denim cut-offs.
I nod. “And the same for my wife, please.”
Jodie beams, sitting across from me in her boho-chic flowing skirt and halter-top. Both women ooze summer; one M&S, one ASOS. We’ve explored areas of the island, together and apart, comparing notes over dinner on the villa’s patio as the sun singes sea and sky with its marmalade halo. Sunsets and sex play well together, especially with unending ocean lapping our toes. It’s a journey for us both, in a way, though I’m waiting for the right moment to bring up my prognosis.
For me, every day in paradise raises deeper questions.
Am I fulfilled?
Have I ever been?
Will I leave a legacy?
Does life deliver happiness, or is contentment and familiarity its surrogate?
From privately vented anger and denial to acceptance, grew the realisation I need to take more risks with what time I have left. Empty my bucket list. Skydiving. Trans-Siberian Express. Moonlit skinny-dipping. Island paradise… Fuck injustice. Fuck the world. Fuck everything. Fuel the mounting desire to chase that selfish thrill and claim I’ve lived.
My wife’s presence ought to temper rampant thought, but it doesn’t. As the waitress sashays away, I buzz like I’ve never known. Six weeks of flirting crash unchecked through my head. Lingering skin contact paying the coffee tab. Playful conversations. Loaded smiles over her shoulder. Cleavage flashes and coy bites of her lip when bending to clear tables.
The undulation of her taut behind peeking from the shorts fans the flames of my recurring daydream to follow her to the kitchen when the chef’s on break. Twirl her to face me and pin her to the chiller with a kiss. Pent-up lust swirls between our tongues, hands gravitating to hips, drawing bodies together, my cock raging beneath my shorts.
I chase kisses down her throat and she tosses back golden curls. I’m consumed by intoxicating hunger, the scent of her skin mingling with the sweetness of ingredients in the air.
My reverie always follows the same pattern, passion spilling over, tugging stretchy top beneath braless chest, then slavishly kissing and biting the firming nipples as she stifles gasps. Sinking to my knees and tearing open the buttons of her barely-there shorts, I shower her tiny panties in kisses and insistent licks.
She grips the edges of the fridge over her head as I add saliva to the burgeoning sticky oval spreading from her perfectly shaved slit beneath the fabric. I nuzzle dripping folds, roll my nose over her clit and inhale her heady musk when she rocks needy hips into my face.
Her breathy whisper sends shivers through me. “More. Please.”
Keeping one eye on the doorway, I stand. Skim my palm over impossibly soft skin and slither beneath the elastic, tucking one finger, then two between creamy lips. She nods, “Uh-huh,” and I bury my face in her chest, biting and sucking as she writhes. Whimpers. Drips.
Desire rages when her glassy expression meets mine, her mouth dropping open, elation tumbling out. That mischievous giggle drives me to grab the cinnamon shaker and dust it over her tits, licking a clean path through the powder. The honey follows, upending the bottle, drizzling a golden stripe from one nipple to the other. I didn’t think anything could top the taste of a Liège but she proves me wrong when I roam my tongue through the sweet, thick trail, spreading it over her chest.
She bucks in my grip, leaking pussy juices around my embedded fingers as I crush her clit and slather honeyed powder across her nipples.
We lock eyes, the girl’s breath hitches, she shakes and comes hard, clenching my fingers in a rhythmic internal dance, synchronised with soft mewls into the kitchen.
I clamp my hand to her mouth, ragged breaths fogging my palm as I clean her chest of the messy waffle toppings. Her dainty fingertips find my erection, skimming across my shorts, squeezing. A promise. Next time.
Jolting in the seat, cock straining at the involuntary brush of my hand, a spot of pre-come oozes into my underwear. I desperately need relief before I come right here at the table.
Mumbling an apology to Jodie, I stand and lumber away towards the back of the café.
When I return, Jodie tilts her head and looks at me funny. “You okay? You seem… flustered.”
I wave away her concern. “Fine. Just the heat.”
With a shaky hand I lift the coffee to my lips, the aroma and richness drifting. It partly soothes, partly spikes my adrenaline.
Mia reappears shortly, carrying two plates of delicious Belgian treats, placing them carefully and smiling as she bends forward.
My wife thanks her. Pauses, and adds, “Uhhh, you’ve got a little something…” she indicates her own ample décolletage.
Mia glances down and scoops up the errant, syrupy droplet, swiping it across her tongue. “Ooops. Wonder how that got there.”
I hurriedly take another slug of coffee, the scent of Mia’s juices still mingling with the java. The caffeine barely slows my racing heartbeat.
Something that seems to stretch endlessly. Until one day it doesn’t. Until everything changes.
I eye Jodie over the cup. Flick my gaze to Mia. And silently vow to make every remaining daydream count.