Martha waited in the Heathrow arrivals terminal with butterflies in her stomach. She checked her reflection again on the back of her phone. Her makeup was subtle, highlighting her pale skin and red hair without being too much. Her lips were red, mostly from her chewing on them in anxiety, not quite knowing what to expect when her lover, Paul, came out from his flight from Miami.
It had been a month since she’d last seen him. A month of anxieties and wondering if she’d still be able to keep the connection with the only man she’d ever loved. It was hard enough doing a long distance relationship with someone who lived in South London while she kept a flat far north in the city. Trying to be with Paul while he still lived in the States was next to impossible. But her feelings for him had ruled her common sense and she kept touch; they kept touch. And now he was coming to visit for a week.
She pressed her lips together, chewed them. Another flood of passengers came through the wide exit and she watched them, her eyes alighting on every single face, then finally, she saw him. Her heart pitched in her chest.
“Paul!” She waved.
She watched as his eyes tracked across the wide airport, searching for her. She called his same again. Martha knew the exact moment he saw her. His eyes stopped their hunt. His normally austere face transformed with a smile, his dark eyes sparkling, warm lines appearing at the corners of his mouth. That tall and incredibly fit body of his moved easily through the crowd. Wearing boots, tight jeans, a t-shirt with a picture of Nelson Mandela on it, he looked more like a rock star on holiday than a physical therapist. He carried a cloth duffle bag over his shoulder.
“Martha.” He breathed her name like it was air.
She hugged him close to her, feeling her heart thump wildly in her chest. “Paul.”
“Damn. I can’t believe I finally have you in my arms again.” He kissed her, a swift swoop of his mouth, that he probably meant to be quick but she held onto him, gripped the back of his neck and kissed him deeply. Their tongues moving together, their breaths coming hard.
“Get a room!” a man called out with laughter in his voice.
Paul pulled away, his eyes even darker with desire. “We will.”
She cleared her throat. “Let’s go get your bags,” she said.
“I don’t have any checked luggage.” He held up the plain duffel hanging from his shoulder. “This is it.” He was ready to go.
Martha smiled. “Okay.”
They walked through the airport, their hands clasped together, the heat a subtle but palpable thing between them.
“You look the same,” Paul said, looking down at her. “For some reason I got it in my head that you weren’t as wonderful as I remembered, that I made up what an amazing woman you are.” He squeezed her hand. “But you’re the same.”
She didn’t know what to say; to her, he’d always been magnificent. In her mind and in reality.
They made it quickly through the airport and to the car park where Martha claimed her red Mini Cooper. She and Paul got in and the little car made swift work of the roads from Heathrow. Soon, there were on the M4, heading for her Stroud Green flat. Nighttime lay heavy outside the car, streetlights burning through the darkness on the highway, the headlights and taillights of other cars.
For the first few kilometers, they sat in silence in the confines of the small car. Martha felt every breath she took, heard ever exhalation and inhalation from Paul. Her nerves jangled. Butterflies rioted in her stomach. What if things had changed between them? What if he no longer loved her? In desperation, she pushed the power button on the car, flooding the Mini with music from the CD player. Beautiful by M’shell Ndegeocello. A song they’d made love to over a dozen times. It was on a mix of songs that Paul had sent her. Love songs.
He took a soft breath next to her, shifting in the leather seats to look fully at her. “You’ve been listening to it.”
“Every night.” She flicked her gaze briefly from the road to look at him.
The song played in the car, singing of shared pleasures and passion while memories from their months together in America overwhelmed Martha. She remembered meeting him at the art show at the university; she remembered how beautiful she thought he was.
At the art show, all those months ago, she felt like the white walls were beginning to close in on her a little. As the only Englishwoman on the Fort Myers, Florida archeological dig and even the only one affiliated with the university archaeology department at that time, she had felt overwhelmed and isolated. Most people only wanted to talk with her to hear her accent, not really listen to what she had to say. After they heard enough of her charming North London accent, they wandered off, leaving her lonelier than ever.
She stood in the corner of the gallery reception, an event her department was obligated to attend in support of one of their colleagues whose talents lay in both archaeology and sculpture. She stood staring at the bust of what the note on the stand referred to as “Neanderthal Man at Breakfast.” It just looked like a lump of unformed clay to Martha.
“Do you think it would make more sense if we crossed our eyes and tried not to look at it?”
She looked up from the sculpture to meet a remarkable pair of dark eyes. They had flecks of gold in them and were brimming with humor.
“It’s not that bad, actually,” she said, feeling the need to defend her colleague’s work.
“It’s awful. Don’t be polite about it. My brother makes these things as joke. He knows how awful they are.” The man smiled and shrugged. He was tall, so tall she had to tilt her head up to look at him. He had an ascetic’s face that was all planes and angles except for a surprisingly sensual mouth. The kind of face that belonged on a Pompeian coin. He held out his hand, introduced himself as Paul Barrett, and immediately asked her out to dinner.
At dinner, she found out his mother was English, that he was ambidextrous, and loved bangers and mash. Dinner had led to breakfast which had led to three months of incredible sex, which led to her confession of love. And, surprisingly, his. But she had not been able to stay in America any longer than her papers allowed, and he had his life and career in Florida.
Martha came back to the present as the song on the CD player tapered off, flowed into the next. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
“Good.” He leaned back in his seat simply watching her, his light-flecked gaze like a warm sun her face. “I’ve thought about you every day since you’ve been gone,” he said. “Especially your red hair.”
She blushed, knowing exactly what he meant.
“Can you show me?”
The flame of her blush consumed her face. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she stared out at the light traffic stretching before her on the M4. She peeked from the corner of her eyes at him, saw the aggressive press of his cock against his jeans. Marsha took a hand from the steering wheel and pulled up her skirt, pulled it all the way up to her waist. She wasn’t wearing any panties. Her flame red bush was a bright flash against the length of pale green skirt under her.
“So beautiful,” he said.
She felt herself get wet. That was all it took. A few words from him and she was gone. Her worries had been in vain. Things were still the same between them. Her foot pressed harder on the gas. The little car whipped into the right lane, quickly passing a line of slow-moving vehicles. She wanted to get home. She wanted to touch him.
Beside her, he laughed softly. “No need to rush, love. We have all the time in the world.” Then he touched her.
Fingers combing through the lush hair on her mound, delicately stroking her clit. She made a low noise but kept driving. His fingers dipped inside her dripping center and they both moaned.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured in wonder. “I want…” But he didn’t say what he wanted. Only took out his hard cock and stroked it. Martha took quick peeks at him while watching the road, saw the movement of his hands around his thickly veined sex, slow and methodical. With his other hand he circled her clit with two fingers, inciting the movement of her hips against the seat, the soft gasps from her mouth.
“Paul, please…” She didn’t know what she was begging him for. Her fingers tightened even more on the steering wheel.
The feel of his hands on her body was slowly setting her aflame. A tight heat burst from between her legs. She licked her lips. Paul moved his hands faster on his cock, stroking and pulling on his sex while he fucked her deeply with his long fingers, rubbed her clit with his thumb. Their moans fill the car.
“You feel so good…” he murmured, breathless, moving his fingers deeper, harder. Stroking himself faster and faster. Pre-cum leaked from the head of his cock. Martha bit her lips. Hungry for a taste. Hunger for the orgasm she felt slamming toward her. She felt like her body was on the very verge of explosion, nipples tight in her dress, her sex clutching at Paul’s fingers. Her foot stomped down on the gas. She almost slammed into the car in front of them. The car bucked, jerked them toward the windshield. “No, please! Stop, I can’t….” She panted. Gripping the wheel, blinking at the night traffic.
He pulled his hands from her body. She whimpered in disappointment although she was the one who asked him to stop. “I don’t suppose you can pull over?” His mouth was flushed pink, his eyes even darker with his desire.