Page 24 of This Is Who I Am

“Is there anything I should know? Anything you want to tell me?” she asks.

I can’t think of anything, except… “Please, don’t be offended if I don’t come. It’s most certainly not you. It’s me.” I may be excited beyond any point I’ve reached in years, but my inability to climax might not be impacted by that. I have no idea. All of this is a surprise to me.

“Sure,” she says, in a way that doesn’t sound like acceptance at all. “Do you have lube?”

It’s a logical question but I have to think really hard with a brain that’s not capable of that right now. Does lube have an expiration date?

“I don’t know. Maybe in the drawer on your side of the bed,” I manage to say.

“It’s okay.” Estelle’s finger still circles my nipple. “Let’s not worry about that.” Her voice is just as enticing as her fingertip. Like she has a special register for sex. Jesus, this woman.

She moves in and kisses me on the lips this time. I bring my hands to the back of her head and pull her closer. Automatically, my hands glide down, but I stop them when they dip too low. It’s really not that hard to let all of this be about me, especially considering the effect Estelle has on me.

Her fingers dance over my skin, slow and sometimes fast. Her lips are on mine, then back on my nipples, then roaming across my neck, my shoulders, my belly.

All the while, my clit rages like a wild bird suddenly trapped in a cage—like it can’t believe what is happening here and wants to make damn sure I’m aware.

But it’s impossible not to be aware of my clit.

All the energy in my body seems to have gathered there.

Every time Estelle’s fingers skim along my skin, my clit beats harder.

Every time her lips find mine, her breath hot and full of promise against my mouth, my clit thumps with impossible vigor.

It’s as though my bed has become a time machine taking me back to a time when I enjoyed sex with every fiber of my being.

When it was an intrinsic part of my life, as vital as food and water.

When sex was joyful and carefree and not the emotional minefield it became that last year with Sarah.

When I could no longer give her what she wanted no matter how hard I tried—because I stopped wanting it for myself.

Estelle’s lips find my ear. “I’m going to lick your pussy,” she croons into my ear, and it’s no longer a question. It’s a fact—a delicious, breathtaking fact.

My mouth goes dry, and, for a split second, I fear for a hot flash, but this time around, my body is on fire for very different and much better reasons.

She kisses me again and the thought of her soft tongue on my clit is almost too much to bear—like more than I deserve.

But I shake it off easily, perhaps because of the things she said to me, or simply because of how she is, or because of this moment which is special and unique and unexpected in the best possible way.

There is no questioning sensual energy like this. Its only purpose is to be enjoyed.

She hooks her fingers into the waistband of my panties and tugs—slowly but purposefully—until I’m bare beneath her gaze.

I spread my legs for her—another action I haven’t performed for anyone in long years.

The intimacy of it is both intimidating and thrilling.

To show yourself like that to someone new, at my age, is not a given, yet she has made it so.

She must be a magician—or some sort of sapphic sorceress.

She trails her lips along the inside of my thighs, taking her time, showering me with soft, hot kisses.

The closer she gets to my throbbing mess of a clit, the more my breath stalls in my throat.

The sweet agony of anticipation translates into goose bumps all over my skin and a red-hot sensation in my flesh.

My hands are in her hair, which tickles my belly in the most delicious manner.

It makes me feel as though she’s everywhere, although she’s very much focused on the money spot right now.

Her breath is hot against my clit. Her fingers roam across my nether lips, tickling, stroking, driving me ever more insane.

Then, at last, her tongue swipes along my clit.

Not teasingly like I had expected, but fierce and full of intention.

Oh, fuck. I’m such a goner—not for an orgasm, although its chances are increasing tenfold by the millisecond—but for her.

For Estelle Raymond. If I wasn’t already, I’m falling head-over-heels in love with her right here, right now, in my bed.

Her tongue is deft and hot and everything I need.

I feel her everywhere. Against my clit but also, perhaps ridiculously, in my heart.

None of this should be possible. Still, it’s happening.

Oh yes, it’s definitely happening. It’s as though she can read my body without me having to say or do anything.

Like she picks up on every micro-movement of my hips, on every ragged inflection of my moans, on how my fingers cling to her scalp.

She is a sapphic sorceress with a magic wand for a tongue.

It’s the only explanation I have for the euphoric sensation rolling through my flesh.

For the wave of lust that pulls me under—like one of those waves that is a giant wall of water I sometimes see from my kitchen window.

There’s no escape. And the sudden inevitability of it takes my breath away.

Is this even me in this bed, with this gorgeous woman’s head between my legs?

If it is, how did I possibly swing this?

How are my limbs suddenly going slack with the certainty of orgasm?

How are the hormones in my blood making this happen?

Which cocktail is riding through my veins because of Estelle—truly, simply, only because of her?

I thrash my head from side to side because I can’t believe this, yet I feel it all the way down to my toes.

I howl noisily and unabashedly, a sound I’ve never before uttered.

Estelle’s tongue works its magic on me as if it’s nothing.

As if I come like this every day of the week.

And the pure joy that spreads through my flesh forces tears to stream from my eyes.

The orgasm is long and strong and takes every last ounce of energy I have left in my middle-aged muscles.

I’m still half-paralyzed when Estelle’s face appears before me, her chin glistening, her smirk more sweet than self-satisfied, although there’s definitely also a hint of that.

“No need for me to be offended, then,” she says, while gently swiping at the tears on my cheek.

“Fuck,” is truly all I can say. I want to cry, but I already am. I want to ask how, but I already know. It’s her.

She glues her body to mine again and puts her head on my shoulder, an arm curved warmly along my chest.

“Let me know when you can speak again,” she says, a smile in her voice. “No rush. You set the pace.”