Naughty in the Fitting Room

She was holding a pair of white canvas shoes that weren't yet hers when she heard his voice. "Holy shit. Shannon?"

Her grip on the shoes faltered as her head whipped up. She knew that tambre, that inflection. Or she used to, anyway.

And then he was there, at her arm. Jake Greenwell, the first boy who she'd loved completely and unabashedly, way back when. He was the one who'd set her skin ablaze with just a look, just a brush of fingers across her bare forearm. The first guy who'd ever made her climax—over her clothes, mind you, but an orgasm is an orgasm and that orgasm had been a great one.

Over-the-clothes was as far as they ever got, because shortly thereafter, he moved away, and Shannon never saw Jake again. He now looked much the same as he had twenty years ago—taller than most, broad in the shoulder, golden skinned. Hair as jet-black and thick as always, she noted with appreciation—many men their age weren't so lucky. And his smile still made everything below her waist churn. Five seconds into their first encounter in two decades, and her black bikini underwear had gone completely wet. Though her mouth had the opposite problem, she—somehow—remembered how to talk. "Oh my god, Jake?"

"Well, come here, you!" He pulled her to him unceremoniously, his arms long enough wrap all the way around her and then some. Hers came up under his elbows, squeezing his warm body. He smelled freshly-showered, and also like peppermint, and she surreptitiously tried to inhale as much of him as she could.

He held her out by the shoulders, like he wanted to look at her. "I can't believe it's you."

"Same," she managed, still fiddling with the canvas shoes, strung together with white stretchy cord. "What brings you to town?"

"Oh, completely random. Family pictures. Central meeting place."

She casually detached herself from his grip, aiming to regain at least some level of composure. Could she look calm and collected when her cheeks were on fire? "Ah. Who's your family these days?" Her eyes had already grazed his knuckles in search of a wedding ring, and while there was none, she knew better than to assume anything.

"It's just me these days. Mom, sister, cousins. Lincoln's in the middle of us all." He shrugged, grinning. "There's altogether too much red in this town," he said, gesturing at a Husker gear endcap.

"There's exactly the right amount of red. Go Huskers!" she said, unzipping her hoodie enough to reveal the red Nebraska N logo of her t-shirt.

His eyes lingered on the logo emblazoned across her chest—which was ample, she knew—for maybe a beat too long, and he cleared his throat. "Shoe shopping?"

He fingered the shoes in her grip. His hands were close enough that she could have leaned down and fastened her lips around one of his fingers.

If she wanted.

She shrugged. "Killing time."

"Ah. Me too."

Their bodies had somehow inched back together, Shannon noted—she was in much closer proximity than she'd typically stand with anyone. And it still didn't feel close enough. She wanted to be close enough to smell mint, to feel heat. To taste him.

God, calm down, Shannon, she thought, but even as she did, his hand reached up under her chin, pulling her gaze up to his.

"I think you should try something on," he said, but he said it like he'd told her something gravely serious.

She couldn't help it—she laughed, jostling the shoes between them as a reminder. "I was about to."

"I mean something that requires a fitting room."

It was odd, really. They'd gone years without seeing each other, without touching each other. Years with no contact at all. Yet when their eyes crashed into each other over a pair of Converse knock-offs, they knew, without speaking, exactly what the other was saying. Exactly what the other wanted.

Something hot and delicious started in her chest and burned its way down, , until every part of her was awake, alive. A conflagration. A delightful twist-and-shout, just below her navel. "You're right. I do need to try something on."

She forced herself to move slowly, deliberately, though her throbbing nether regions urged her to get to a fitting room as fast as humanly possible. With shaking hands she placed the shoes back on the shelf, grabbed the first t-shirt within arms' reach, and beelined to the fitting room. "One item," she told the clerk, taking the pink plastic square that was handed to her. She looked over her shoulder on her way into the room. Jake stood several feet away, but close enough that she could tell he was looking. Waiting.

She let herself into a far back corner fitting room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Her breath was already coming in short, urgent puffs. What now? Would he knock? Would he whisper her name? Would he—

The door creaked open, and he was there, all six-foot-four of him, all the sinews and lines and bones of him. He made the room feel small, and warm, and fantastically naughty. He towered over her, and she cranked her head up, wanting to drink in his face.

And then his hands were on her waist and hers were under the back of his shirt. The first kiss felt was a jolt, a collision of past and present, and she pushed him against the full-body mirror of the room, crushing her mouth hard into his. He issued a muffled groan as her hips pressed into his, and she delighted at feeling how hard he already was. She pushed in again, with intention, rolling her hips in a figure eight, earning her whispered, "Jesus."

His hands were warm on her stomach as he pushed them up her front, over her chest, first removing her shirt and then sinking his face into her cleavage. The bra fell off with one deft, one-handed movement, and he circled her nipples with his thumbs. A sharp intake of air from her, a grin from him. "You like that?" he whispered, squeezing both nipples, and she clamped her teeth into her bottom lip, willing herself to stay silent. He bent his head to her chest. A teasing lick. A light nibble. And finally he took the nipple into his mouth completely, rolling it with his tongue, clamping it hard between his lips until she gasped. "Please," she whispered, though she didn't know what she was begging for.

"Patience," he murmured, unbuttoning her jeans and pushing them down as his mouth roved lower. His breath was hot, so hot, against her eager body, which throbbed and burned and would have pled on its own, if it could have. His tongue on her navel, his lips trailing kissing across her hipbones, his teeth on the inside of her thighs.

A metallic clink signaled the opening of another fitting room; feet shuffled, dull shuds and shuffles followed. Jake took her hand and looked up at her. "Nod if you can be quiet," he whispered.

She nodded.

He picked her up like she weighed nothing, setting her down into the room's one chair, and knelt in front of her, resuming his attention to the inside of her thighs, which made them tremble. And finally, finally, a tentative lick, in her warmest place. "Mmm." He chuckled, his breath scalding against her bare sex. "You taste even better than I imagined." At this she bucked her hips and he met her, tunneling her tongue inside of her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling what would have been an enthusiastic moan. His tongue explored, lapping deep and shallow, round and round. He grasped her ass in his hands as she arched in the chair, needing more, more, faster. He made her wait, moving to and from her clit as long as he dared, until she grabbed his hair and again said, "Please." And this time, she knew what she was begging for.

And so did he. Finally, he bestowed all of his energy right where she needed it, right at the only place she could possibly focus on just then, and he went faster, and sucked harder, as she bucked, one hand woven in through his black hair, one gripping the hard plastic of the chair with white knuckles. One cry slipped out, terribly loud in the quiet of the fitting room, and she picked up the t-shirt she'd brought into the room to "try on," moaning into it instead. Her thighs shook with the force of her climax, long after she'd sunk her last cry into the t-shirt.

When finally she stopped bucking, and shaking, and needing, her body collapsed back into the chair, spent.

Was the other fitting room occupant still there, or had she left? And what had she heard? Shannon had lost all sense of time, and place, and herself for the last several minutes. She swept a hand across her forehead, misty with exertion.

From between her legs, Jake smirked. His thumbs continued to make small circles on the insides of her thighs. "What now?"

She pulled at his arms, urged him up to her mouth to kiss him. He tasted like mint and like Her and just like that, her body was awake and aroused again. Her hands slipped to his belt, and after his jeans hit the floor, and his boxer briefs, she grasped his still-rock-hard dick, firmly. His eyes narrowed, almost as if in pain, but his tiny, almost inaudible moan was one of pleasure. She reached down to borrow some of her own wetness, then used that to slide her hand down his shaft, and up, and down, his hips now moving in rhythm with her grasp.

She kissed his mouth, and his neck, and this place beneath his ear that she somehow—somehow!—remembered that he liked, all these years later. She smiled as she felt his breath come faster, and as he slid in and out of her hand with increasing speed. Using her tongue to draw a line from his collarbone to his jaw, she bit him gently, then whispered right into his ear, "Fuck me."

Needing no more invitation, he pulled her up and flipped her body so she faced the mirror, and grasped her hips in his hands. She arched her back in invitation and he plunged in, both of them stifling groans of appreciation, of relief. And then he started to move. Is it possible to die of pleasure? She wondered this as her eyes rolled back into her head, as he continued to plunge in and out, in and out, slow at first. She curved her back even more, willing him deeper, and he obliged, wrapping one arm around her waist to pull her body back against hers. The other, he used to cup her breasts, where he stroked, circled, pinched. She looked up and into the mirror, where she could see his face, focused and confident yet almost awestruck, and being the object of someone's desire in this way lit something in her that she hadn't felt in years. She pushed back into him, urging speed as her belly filled with fire and she saw white behind her eyes, again. "Harder," she demanded in a thin whisper, as her body started to shake, as sounds started making their way from her throat without her permission. He clapped his free hand over her mouth as she came, crying into it, and he climaxed with her, gasping and shuddering into her hair.

Later, after they'd exited the room one by one, and after she'd purchased the t-shirt she'd used to muffle her cries, after they said "goodbye, let's do this again sometime," she realized she'd completely forgotten to buy her white canvas shoes. And she hoped upon hope that when she went back for them, Jake Greenwell would somehow, miraculously, be there.