From His Cup

Reactions to my first story were all over the map: some encouraging, some downright brutal, a few hilarious... Thank you to everyone who commented, from the supportive to the dismissive. I took your feedback seriously, reviewed some parts and weaving in the constructive criticism into this second part.

To those insisting this is purely fiction (like 99.9% of all stories here): you guys crack me up! Let's just say there may, or may not, be a few real-life echoes in it. If you liked it, stick around. Let's see if I'll get to write more in this series of two people, one moment, one decision that feels right for all the wrong reasons.

Be constructive in critiscm. Let me know in the comments what worked. And, also, what didn't. But just don't trash without indicating what doesn't work for you.

If it's not your cup of coffee, that's fine too. Just skip to the next story of your liking.

Enjoy!

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The conference call was almost over, ending in small talk. While her mind was still half in the numbers, busy juggling merchant acquisition, upcoming deadlines, special clauses. After heated discussions, her linen dress sticking lightly to her chest and hips.

The doorbell cut through it. Too sharp.

She sighed. He must have forgotten something again. A folder, a charger, a file. Always leaving parts of his oh-so-important day behind. Yet, it seemed he was always leaving her behind.

She opened the door.

Not him. Not her husband.

A young man stood there. Early thirties maybe. Dark blue trousers, fitted white shirt, glasses. Well groomed. A smile on his lips. A smile so relaxed, it appeared dangerously careless. Handsome in a way that hit her too fast.

Her stomach flipped.

Because for a second, it wasn't him at all: It was him! The boy from university. The one who once had her heart beating out of her chest, who made her lose nights and exams -- and her caution. The one she fell into like a fever. The one she never quite forgot.

And here he was again.

Or, rather someone who looked enough like him to make her knees feel weak.

"Good morning Mrs. Drake, I'm Tom." the handsome stranger said, holding up the empty folder. "My boss, ehm, your husband sent me to pick up some documents."

She laughed quickly, buying a second, "He always forgets something".

She stepped aside, motioned him in, pointed him to her husband's study. The files laying on the desk, prepared, yet forgotten in the morning rush.

Why did these papers remind her of her own situation? Left behind. Only appreciated at times.

In one smooth motion, the man slid the documents into the folder and sealed it. Done.

The silence of the house pressed heavier now. The interruption of her morning. She had to learn more about him.

"Tom, would you like a coffee?" While he nodded, she turned to the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to turn her back on him.

Walking before him, he couldn't help noticing how the dress was hugging her toned glutes and how her long, wavy hair was waying with each footstep. What a view, he thought, feeling how his dick started to react to these sensual sights

"Espresso?" she asked, already reaching for the machine. Again, he smiled and nodded. The grinding of the beans interrupted the silence of the unspoken. Blushing lightly, she couldn't withstand his avid gaze. Was he really checking her out? She felt unsure, her mind racing with images of her flaws popping up.

Her hands knew the routine of the espresso machine. But her body betrayed her. The portafilter wouldn't fit seamlessly as she had inserted thousands of times before. Not on this morning.

Smiling nervously, she finally managed to properly insert the portafilter in the brew head, the metals creating a duffled sounds. The pressure one, the extraction filling the kitchen with the smell of a promise. Perfection, drop by drop.

The cup shook slightly as she set it down on the kitchen counter. A drop of the brown nectar spilled over her fingers, burned hot.

She never spilled. Not in meetings, not in boardrooms.

Yet here she did.

She handed him the small Italian cup. He took it with a knowing smile. The kind that once undid her.

They traded pleasantries.

He complimented the house, the spotless gourmet kitchen. Her focus breaking away from the intensity of the first moments, she asked him about his experience at her husband's company.

"This job initially came as a challenge. I like how there was always something new to learn, to discover, a problem to solve. But, after some time my role has become a bit predictable."

His words struck her in the bones. Was he talking about her? Did he know how she felt? Neglected? Predictable like a commodity?

Casually, Tom continued: "And here I am... drinking from your husband's cup, in your husband's kitchen..." the last words fading into a smirk. In a low, almost lazy tone, she thought she heard him add. in lowered tone, "... and soon inside his wife."

Her breath caught.

She stared at him, unable to tell if he had said it, or if her mind had conjured it out of memory and desire. Either way, her hand trembled. The cup rattled against the thick saucer. The italian originals. The pride of her husband.

She bit her lip. Too hard. She was no longer steady.

He sat at the table, legs stretched a little too comfortably under her husband's roof. She set her cup opposite his and lowered herself into the chair.

Her fingers drummed once, then stopped. Too obvious. She folded her hands instead. Worse. She smoothed her dress across her stomach, as if it needed smoothing. It didn't.

He lifted the cup slowly, as if he had nowhere else to be. His eyes didn't leave her. She felt them travel, patient, steady. Her skin prickled.

"You make a damn' good espresso," he said finally.

Low. Casual. Heavy.

She let out a laugh. Too quick, too light. Nodding a thank you to the compliment.

Her hand reached for her cup. She shouldn't have. The tremor was back, stronger. A drop ran down the side, pooling in the saucer. She set it down too fast. The warm cup's thick porcelain clinked in the silence.

"Careful," he slowly tilted his head, smirking. "You'll break the cup."

Her throat tightened. She swallowed. Felt the flutter in her neck.

Oh, how she hated that he saw it.

He leaned forward, glasses sliding lower on his nose, elbows on his knees. He looked at her the way her old lover had once looked at her: calm on the outside, dangerous underneath.

Her chest rose faster, pressing against the fabric. She crossed her legs under the table, uncrossed them. Tried to breathe evenly. Failed.

His eyes stayed on her. Waiting. Knowing.

He reached for the sugar jar. She reached too, desperate to cover her nerves with a gesture. Their hands touched. Not clumsy. Not accidental. A slow graze of skin on skin.

Her breath stalled.

She froze, pulled back too quickly. The spoon rattled against the saucer. She laughed, but her voice cracked from the intensity of the situation. "Sorry."

He stirred his cup once, deliberate. She could tell by the way he sipped, he never took sugar.

"Sugar's wasted in this," he murmured, so softly she almost wondered if she imagined it. Imagined it again. Then the smirk. "Unless it's poured somewhere else."

Her fingers clenched in her lap. Heat rushed up her chest. Her cheeks burned. Did he really say that? Or was her mind twisting his words again?

She missed the spoon the first time. Tried again, slower, forcing her hand steady. Lips pressed tight, as if control could be rebuilt by will.

He nudged the jar closer, fingertips brushing hers. This time the touch lingered.

His eyes narrowed, studying her.

She didn't move. Couldn't. Her palm pressed flat to the table, but her wrist trembled despite it. She felt the prey to the hunter.

When she lifted her cup again, the surface rippled. She bit her lip, tasting metal. Another betrayal.

He reached for a napkin. Leaned across. His knuckles grazed her hand as he dabbed the spill. Not an accident. She knew it.

Her breath hitched.

Audible.

Sharp.

She looked at him. Straight into his eyes.

Whether he had spoken those words aloud or only in her head no longer mattered. The line was already gone.

She tried to hold his stare. Failed.

Her gaze dropped to the table, then crept back up on its own.

"Come on, girl," she thought to herself, "you advice board members and here you are loosing it?"

Her chest rose faster now, betraying her.

Each breath pulled the fabric tight over her handful of breasts, spreadingthe décolleté further, then let it fall.

He sipped again, unhurried, the little Italian cup in his hand. Her husband's pride. The soft click of porcelain felt louder than it should.

"You're shaking," he mentioned gently.

It went through her like a blade. She laughed, and it cracked. "Am I?"

"Your hand," he nodded at the cup. "Thought you'd snap the handle off."

Her throat tightened. She tried to answer. Only swallowed. The pulse pounded, far too visible.

The room grew loud with quiet. Refrigerator hum. The seconds on the clock ticking. Her own rough breathing.

She lifted the cup again, trying to look calm. Her hand betrayed her. The surface trembled. She froze, terrified she'd spill again.

His hand slid under her forearm. His fingers brushed her wrist. Just enough to make her shiver. She felt the fine hair in her neck stand up.

Her eyes met his, wide, unblinking. This time she didn't look away.

She set the cup down too quickly. A sharp clink rang in her ears. Her hands retreated to her lap, knotting together. The silence stretched until it became unbearable.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. With his fingers caressing barely noticeably the back of her hand, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

"Do you want me to leave?" Not a tease. A test.

Her lips parted. Nothing came. Only a shaky exhale. She shook her head in refusal.

The seconds dragged. Then he pushed his cup aside and stood. Slow. Deliberate.

She didn't move. Only lifted her chin as he stepped closer.

His hand closed around her left wrist. The fingers of his other hand, laying unmistaken on her ringfinger. Rotating her ring.

Playing with her vows. Heat. Pulse. Skin.

He held it long enough to spike her heart, then slid upward, tracing the inside of her arm. She trembled. Not from fear. She should have pulled back. She didn't.

He bent toward her. Her breath hitched. Lips parted before she could stop them.

The first kiss wasn't hungry. It hovered, brushed, lingered. A gentle test.

A question neither of them would say out loud.

He pulled back slowly, eyes locked on hers. There was the YES, unspoken, yet clear as day.

She broke.

Her hand fisted his shirt and dragged him closer. The second kiss burned. Fierce. Urgent.

The table groaned as her back hit it. Cups rattled faintly.

Her legs parted. The skirt slid higher along her thighs. His right hand pressed at her lower back, drawing her hips into him. Her hands gripped his shoulders. His mouth stayed hot on hers.

The tidy kitchen turned into something else.

A line crossed. No way back.

His mouth pressed harder. She gave in before she could decide not to. Her hands pulled him closer, greedy for something she hadn't felt in years.

Suddenly, her mind flickered to her husband. The speeches. The wins. The parades of his success.

Never about her.

He had long stopped noticing the way her hair smelled after a shower. How she bit her lip when she was nervous. How her hand searched for his in the dark. Details he once knew as well as his own pulse. Details he let go. Letting it slip away in the daily mundanity. Letting the routine dictate her life.

Yet, the man in front of her noticed everything.

The tremor in her wrist. The catch in her breath. The way her chest rose too quickly under the dress. He saw her, in a way her husband hadn't in years.

Her lips parted again, not just for the kiss but for air. Her heart hammered. His hand at her waist, warm, steady, pulling her closer. She wanted to push him away, to reclaim control.

Her body betrayed her. It leaned in. Hungry. Certain.

The coffee smell hung between them, rich and dark. A cruel reminder of how innocent this had begun: a ring on the bell, a cup, a gesture. Now her hands dragged him closer.

She told herself it was madness. Only the resemblance. The tilt of his smile. The careless posture. The echo of that old lover. Only memory filling the silence.

The truth was simpler. Her husband had left her alone long before this morning. Left her to the quiet house. The long calls. The elegant dresses he never praised. The smalltalk with acquaintances.

Left her to be seen by someone else. And she wanted to be seen.

So when he bent closer, she didn't resist. She lifted her chin. Lips parted. Already waiting.

His hand slid higher along her arm, tracing the soft inside where her pulse ran wild. She tried to steady herself. Her breath wouldn't obey. Short. Catching. Shallow.

She thought of her husband. The rushed goodbye. The talking points he rehearsed instead of looking at her. The boasts at dinner. The wins. The handshakes.

Still, never about her.

The contrast sharpened. One man who counted his successes.

Another who noticed her smallest tremor. His fingers touched her jaw, tilted her face. He kissed her again. She met him with everything she'd kept buried.

Her hands locked behind his neck. Pulling. Spine arched. His hands found her and drew her close. No space left.

The table caught her hips. Wood groaned. She lowered herself to it, breath breaking, eyes never leaving his.

He was firm. Young. Present. The dress rode up as she shifted, knees parting on a breath she couldn't swallow.

She knew the line. Knew there was no going back. And still she offered her neck and let his grip tighten at her waist.

She stopped thinking of her husband.

This man had taken her thoughts. Her breath. Her body.

And she let him.

He pushed the dress higher. Heat bloomed everywhere he touched. Their mouths tangled, deep, breathless. She felt the old self return, the one who loved like a fever.

"Not yet," he said when she reached for belt buckle.

Calm. In control.

It shocked her. It steadied her.

"Then what?"

"For you," he said. "First."

He slid his right hand from her waist to the hem of her dress, gliding his fingertips over her smooth thigh. Pushing up the fabric. Reaching her left buttock, grabbing her well-defined glute to him.

She wanted to protest. Yet, she was unable. The room held its breath with her. The unstained kitchen with its clean counter, reflecting back on her darkest desires. A porcelain click somewhere behind them. Espresso in the air, thick and dark, as if to remind her how innocently this had started.

She arched into his touch despite herself. A sound tore from her throat. Too loud for the quiet kitchen. She bit her lip to kill the echo. Failed.

He didn't rush. He watched her face. Learned her rhythm. Set the pace and made her follow. Every small tell, her breath, her pulse, the way her fingers searched for grip, revealed how he should place his next move. He pushed the thought aside.

Sliding his fingertips on the silky front of her tiny panties. He felt the heat emanating from her crotch. The fabric felt moist the lower he slid with his hand. She gasped with every movement.

He slipped his ring finger under the edge of the delicate fabric. lifting the seam gently, letting his other fingers glide along the curve of her outer lips.

Her skin was smooth, perfectly smooth under his probing touch. He traced the sides of her labia, then pressed his palm firmly over her smound.

Not entering. Not yet.

Making her want it. But enough to make her feel claimed.

He pushed the silky V of her thong aside, fingertips contouring her pulsing folds. Heat radiated from her, the glistening of the silky fabric that betrayed her. The wet patch on her thong made every fiber of her body awake. Eager. Willing. Ready to receive.

His thumb found her clit, pressed just hard enough to make her gasp. Then he slid lower, fingertips gliding over her moist spot. The fabric of her panties was damp, betraying how ready she was, how much her body craved this despite the voice in her head screaming no.

He traced the outline of her slit through the silk, his fingers knowing exactly what they were doing. She arched into him, unable to stop herself. He chuckled. Low. The sound dark, knowing. His fingers slid further, found the wettest part of her panties, pressed down just enough to make her whimper.

"You're so wet," he murmured against her ear, "because of me."

Not a question.

An observation, laced with the same arrogance that had first infuriated her.

Her head dropped back, hit the table with a dull thud. She didn't care. Her eyes closed, breath coming too fast. "You have no idea," she managed, the words almost a whisper.

She meant it to be a warning, a way to reclaim some control. But her body betrayed her, arching higher into his touch. His fingers followed, sliding under the silk of her panties, finding the slick heat of her.

She moaned, sharp, unrestrained. The sound echoed in the silent kitchen, too loud, too real. He laughed again, a dark rumble against her throat. His teeth nipped at her jaw, sharp, before his mouth found hers again.

His fingers were relentless now. They parted her folds, slick from her juices, sure, like he owned her. Her breath stuttered, hips moving with his touch without permission. His thumb pressed hard against her clit, circling, teasing, just shy of enough.

"Deeper," she gasped, holding to his neck.

He obliged. Two fingers slipped inside her, slow, deliberate. She was tight, so tight it almost hurt. But he didn't stop, pushing deeper, stretching her. She cried out, not from pain but from relief.

His fingers curved inside her, stroking that spot that made her vision blur. He set a rhythm, hard, demanding, and she matched it, hips rising to meet each thrust. Her panties were ruined now, the silk bunched to the side, no barrier at all.

She didn't think of her husband any longer. Didn't think at all. Only felt.

His fingers filling her, his thumb working her clit. Working wonders on her pearl, his mouth devouring hers. She clawed at his back, needing something to anchor her as the world tilted.

The pressure sharpened, then steadied. She rose to meet it. Once. Again. Again. Again. The world narrowed to heat and sound and the steady knock of the table under her weight.

It hit fast. Hard. A bright, clean break. Her pussy clenched around his fingers, pulsing, waves of pleasure that left her shaking. She heard herself cry out, a cry from the distant body, a sound she didn't recognize, desperate and wild.

The room swam. She pressed her forehead to his and tried to breathe. Failed. Tried again.

He didn't stop. Kept thrusting, drawing out her pleasure until she was almost too sensitive. Then he slowed, eased his fingers out of her, brought them to her lips. She sucked on his fingers without hesitation, tasting herself on his skin. Circling with her tongue on the fingertips, sucking them in deeply. His eyes never left hers, dark, satisfied, possessive.

She lay there for a moment, catching her breath, legs still trembling. His gaze stayed on her, heavy, knowing. She realized suddenly that he was still fully dressed, belt still buckled, erection straining against his slacks. She reached for him without thinking, fingers brushing his zipper.

He caught her wrist. "Not yet."

She froze, confusion mingling with the last waves of pleasure. "But you..."

He shook his head. "That was for you."

She bit her lip. Her body still hummed. Every nerve awake. Skin too sensitive. Particularly whith her pearl pulsating.