“It tastes like your cum.”
We were ten years into our clandestine romance and halfway through the first course at Indienne when it hit me: this canapé carried notes of his sperm.
And because we share his with a kiss sometimes, I thought he’d find the observation amusing. He did.
He’s always loved exploring new things with me, and he’s always been a planner. And that evening was no exception.
He’d curated a celebratory night that carried significance at every turn, each moment referencing highlights of our decade together.
There were drinks at the scene of our first date, a stay in the first hotel in which we ever fucked, and dinner at a spot that’s worth the hype.
Early in the evening, over cocktails, I handed him his Christmas gift: the book I had accidentally stolen from the workspace we’d shared in secret last year.
We laughed at the inside joke of it all, at the closeness. That chapter of us had been unconscionably hot, and I wanted him badly.
So I slipped him a room key, palmed the contraband publication, and excused myself to the room. I prepared for him to take me.
Knowing the book’s next home would be his home office, I got on my knees, placed it between my legs, and handcuffed my wrists behind my back. Then I waited, abuzz with the kind of anticipation only trust and time can build.
