Aching for the Mentor's Key

I'd been pacing the apartment for the better part of an hour, checking the window every few minutes like some lovesick character in a bad rom-com. Pathetic? Maybe. But you'd been at that conference all day, and I'd spent the entire morning thinking about you in that navy suit, the way your shoulders filled out the jacket, the way you loosened your tie when you were tired.

I'd tried to distract myself. Reorganized the spice rack. Watched half an episode of some cooking show. Even attempted to read, but the words blurred together because my mind kept drifting to your hands. Those patient, deliberate hands that knew exactly where to touch me and exactly how long to linger.

By the time I heard your key in the lock, I was practically vibrating.

The door swung open, and there you were. Suit jacket slung over your arm, tie loosened, top button undone. Your hair was slightly disheveled from the wind outside, and you looked tired until you saw me standing there in the hallway.

"You're home," I said, which was possibly the most obvious statement I'd ever made.

"I am home," you agreed, dropping your briefcase by the door like you always did. Your eyes swept over me, and I watched something shift in your expression. "You look nice."

I'd put in effort. Full makeup, the way I always wore it — eyeliner sharp enough to cut, lips painted a deep rose. My hair fell in long red waves past my shoulders. I was wearing one of your button-down shirts, the white one, barely buttoned, and nothing else. The hem grazed my thighs.

"I was going for 'nice,'" I said. "But I was actually aiming for 'you should take this off immediately.'"

You laughed, that low, warm sound that made my stomach flip. "Long day?"

"The longest." I stepped closer, reaching for your jacket, tossing it on the bench by the door. "Do you know how long it's been since this morning?"

"About eleven hours."

"Eleven hours and—" I glanced at the clock on the wall. "Forty-three minutes. I've been counting."

Your hand came up to my waist, fingers curling against the curve where my waist dipped in. You always touched me like that, like you were memorizing the shape of me. "You could have texted."

"I did text. Three times. You responded with 'in a meeting' and a thumbs-up emoji."

"I was in a meeting."

"You could have excused yourself."

"For what purpose?"

I looked up at you through my lashes. "Moral support."

You laughed again, but your hand tightened on my waist. "You're insatiable."

"You've been gone all week, and then you came back and immediately went to that conference, and I've been sleeping alone in our bed for three nights, and yes — insatiable is an accurate word for my current condition."

Your other hand came up, thumb brushing across my cheekbone, right over the bridge of freckles that crossed my nose. "I missed you too, Gwen."

"Show me," I whispered.

You leaned down, and I rose on my toes to meet you. The kiss started gentle, almost chaste, but I wasn't having that. I grabbed the front of your shirt, pulling you closer, opening my mouth against yours. You made a sound — surprised, then hungry — and your hands slid down to my hips, gripping hard.

I could feel the tension in your shoulders, the stiffness in your neck from hours of sitting through panels and presentations. But underneath that, I could feel something else. Something that matched the heat pooling in my belly.

"Bedroom," I murmured against your lips.

"Couch is closer."

"Couch then."

You walked me backward, your mouth never leaving mine, until my back hit the wall of the hallway. Not the couch, but I didn't care. Your body pressed against mine, and I could feel you through the fabric of your pants, already hard, already wanting.

"Eager," I teased, rolling my hips against you.

"You answered the door half-naked in my shirt. What did you expect?"

"I expected exactly this."

Your mouth moved to my neck, lips trailing down to the sensitive spot below my ear. I let my head fall back against the wall, eyes closing. You knew that spot. You knew every spot.

"I've been thinking about this all day," I admitted, my voice breathy and unsteady.

"Which part specifically?"

"All of it. Your mouth. Your hands. The way you —" I broke off with a gasp as your teeth grazed my collarbone. "That. That specifically."

Your hands moved to the buttons of the shirt I was wearing — your shirt — and undid them one by one with the same patience you brought to everything. It was maddening. Each button revealed another inch of skin, and I wanted to rip the fabric open, but you were slow, deliberate, taking your time.

"Mark," I groaned.

"Mmm?"

"You're going too slow."

"I'm going exactly the right speed."

"You're a tease."

"I'm thorough." The last button came undone, and you pushed the shirt off my shoulders. It pooled on the floor. Your eyes moved over me — the swell of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips. "There's a difference."

I reached for your tie, pulling it loose and dropping it. Then your buttons, working faster than you had. You let me, watching my face with that expression I loved — amused, aroused, endlessly patient.

"Tell me what you want," you said.

"You. In my mouth. Then your mouth on me. Then you inside me." I smiled. "In that order, if you're amenable."

"Very specific."

"I've had eleven hours and forty-seven minutes to plan."

You kissed me again, deep and slow, then guided me toward the bedroom. I went willingly, my fingers working on your belt, your zipper, pushing your pants down as we walked. You stepped out of them somewhere near the doorway.

The bedroom was dim with late afternoon light, the sun slanting through the blinds in gold stripes across the sheets. You sat on the edge of the bed, and I dropped to my knees in front of you, looking up.

"This view," you said quietly, your hand coming to rest on the side of my face.

"I know." I smiled. "I picked it on purpose."

I ran my hands up your thighs, feeling the muscle beneath the fabric of your boxers. You were fully hard now, straining against the cotton. I pulled them down slowly, and you sprang free, thick and warm.

I wrapped my hand around the base of you, stroking slowly, watching your face. Your jaw tightened. Your fingers threaded into my hair, not pushing, just holding.

"Tell me what you like," I whispered.

"You know what I like."

"I want to hear you say it."

Your eyes met mine. "I like when you take your time. I like when you look at me while you do it. I like your mouth."

I leaned forward and ran my tongue along the length of you, base to tip, slow and deliberate. Your hand tightened in my hair. I circled the head with my tongue, tasting the salt of you, then took you into my mouth.

Your breath hissed between your teeth. I hollowed my cheeks, taking you deeper, setting a rhythm that was slow at first. I wanted to draw it out, wanted to make you feel every inch of it. My hand worked what my mouth couldn't reach, and I felt you pulse against my tongue.

"Gwen," you said, and the way you said my name — rough, strained — sent a jolt of heat straight through me.

I hummed around you, and you swore under your breath. I pulled back, pressing a kiss to the tip, then running my lips along the side.

"You're being very good," I murmured. "Very patient."

"You're testing my patience."

"That's the fun part."

I took you back into my mouth, deeper this time, and your hips lifted slightly, pushing into the warmth. I could feel you getting close — the tension in your thighs, the way your breathing had gone ragged. But I wasn't ready for this to end.

I pulled back, pressing one last kiss to the head of your cock, and looked up at you with a smile. "My turn."

You pulled me up, and then you reversed our positions, laying me back on the bed. The sheets were cool against my overheated skin. You knelt between my legs, and I watched your eyes travel down my body.

"Gorgeous," you said, simply. Like it was a fact.

"Flatterer."

"Observation."

You bent your head, pressing kisses along my inner thigh. Slow. So slow. I squirmed, trying to guide you where I wanted you, but you held my hips in place with those strong hands.

"Mark, please."

"Please what?"

"You know what."

"Say it."

I made a frustrated sound. "Your mouth. On me. Now."

Your lips curved against my thigh. "Since you asked so nicely."

And then your mouth was there, right where I needed it, and I forgot how to form sentences. Your tongue moved through my folds, finding my clit with unerring accuracy. You circled it slowly, then faster, then slow again, driving me absolutely insane.

"God, you're good at that," I gasped.

You responded by sliding a finger inside me, curling it against that spot that made my vision blur. My back arched off the bed. Your tongue kept working, relentless and precise, and I could feel the orgasm building like a wave.

"Don't stop," I said. "Don't you dare stop."

You didn't. You added another finger, and your tongue pressed harder, and I shattered. The orgasm hit me like a truck, rolling through me in waves, and I heard myself making sounds that were barely words. Your name, maybe. Some profanity. Your mouth stayed on me through all of it, gentling as I came down.

When I could breathe again, you were kissing your way back up my body. Over my stomach, between my breasts, along my collarbone. I could feel you, hard and ready, pressing against my thigh.

"Condom?" I asked.

"Nightstand."

I reached over, fumbling in the drawer, and handed you the foil packet. You rolled it on with practiced efficiency, and then you were there, the head of your cock pressing against my entrance.

"Look at me," you said.

I met your eyes — dark, intent, focused entirely on me. And then you pushed inside, slow and steady, filling me completely. I gasped, my body stretching to accommodate you. You paused, letting me adjust, and I wrapped my legs around your waist, pulling you deeper.

"Okay?" you asked.

"More than okay. Move."

You started slowly, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Each thrust was deliberate, controlled, and I could feel every inch of you. My hands gripped your shoulders, nails digging in slightly, and you groaned.

"Faster," I said.

You obliged, picking up the pace. The sound of our bodies meeting filled the room, obscene and beautiful. I matched your rhythm, rising to meet each thrust, and the friction was building me back up already.

"You feel incredible," you said against my neck.

"You feel — ah — right there — don't change that angle —"

You didn't. You kept that exact angle, hitting that spot inside me with every thrust, and I felt the second orgasm approaching. Faster this time, sharper.

"I'm close," I warned.

"I know. I can feel you."

Your hand slipped between us, thumb finding my clit, and that was it. I came hard, clenching around you, and your rhythm faltered as my body gripped yours. You swore, low and rough, and I felt you pulse inside me as you followed me over the edge.

We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, your weight braced on your elbows above me. I could feel your heartbeat against my chest, rapid and strong.

"That was," I started.

"Eleven hours and fifty-two minutes well spent," you finished.

I laughed, the sound shaky and satisfied. You pressed a kiss to my forehead, then carefully withdrew, dealing with the condom before collapsing beside me. I curled into your side, my head on your chest, my red hair spilling across your skin.

Your hand traced lazy patterns on my back. "I should go away more often."

"Don't you dare."

"I'm just saying. The welcome home was exceptional."

I propped my chin on your chest, looking up at you. "The welcome home was the bare minimum of what you deserve for leaving me alone for three days."

"What's the maximum?"

I grinned. "Give me twenty minutes and I'll show you."

You laughed, that warm sound I'd missed all week, and pulled me closer. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I settled back against your chest, listening to your heartbeat slow to a normal rhythm. The afternoon light had shifted to early evening gold, painting the room in warm tones. My body felt heavy and satisfied, every nerve still tingling.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?"

"Next time you have a conference, I'm coming with you."

"Deal." Your lips pressed against my hair. "Though I should warn you — I actually do have to attend the sessions."

"I know. I'll just spend the whole time thinking about what we'll do afterward."

"That sounds distracting."

"For both of us." I tilted my head up to look at you. "I'll text you. Thumbs-up emojis only."

You groaned, and I laughed, pressing a kiss to your chest before settling back down.

The room was quiet except for the sound of our breathing. I traced a pattern on your ribs, feeling the solid warmth of you beneath my fingers. This was what I'd missed — not just the sex, though that was exceptional, but this. The stillness after. The way you held me like I was something worth holding onto.

"I love you," I said, the words slipping out soft and easy.

Your arms tightened around me. "I love you too, Gwen."

"Even when I'm insatiable?"

"Especially then."

I smiled against your skin. "Good answer."

"Truthful answer."

I closed my eyes, letting the contentment wash over me. My makeup was probably a disaster, my hair was a mess, and I was thoroughly, wonderfully exhausted. But I was exactly where I wanted to be.

"Round two in ten minutes," I murmured.

"Make it fifteen and you've got a deal."

I reached up and kissed you, slow and sweet, tasting the promise of everything still to come.