Two Sides of a Coin

'Love or lust?'

Your elbows are on the table, two thin, ragged water smears crossing from your side to mine where the table had been freshly wiped before we sat down. There's a tiny little trail of crumbs from the caramel shortcake where I broke it in two and we shared, you complaining that my half was bigger than yours. I said I'd used a lot more energy up in bed last night than you, which was when you kicked my shin under the table. But your shoe was off and it felt nice. You'd ordered a cappuccino with chocolate dusted on top and there was a dark, sugary line along your lower lip. I wanted to kiss it off, but it would have been awkward to lean that far over the table. There's a buzz between us, something between intimacy and anticipation.

You swipe at my hand and try and unprise my fingers with yours. 'It doesnotsay that,' you say.

'It doesn'tsayanything.' The coin is moist in my palm, your fingers are cool. You give up trying to prise my fingers open and just stroke the base of my wrist with the tip of your finger, where the artery is. 'So: 'Love' we go, 'Lust' we miss it and just stay in bed all evening. Deal?'

You're smiling, enjoying the tease. 'Lust then.'

I lift my eyebrows. 'Tempting. Very tempting. But, no, the coin must decide.' I turn my hand over, opening it and slap the palm down on the back of my other hand, lifting it to show the shiny silver piece. You crane forward to look.

'So which side is that?'

'That's love.'

You pout.

'Ach, shame.' Your dark black eyes are on mine as you stretch out the vowels. Your accent is of sun-dried earth and burnt oranges. I drop the coin in the saucer where the waxy slip of paper says how much we need to pay.

'But they're two sides of the same coin anyway.'

You sit back and stretch out, your bare foot coming up and rubbing casually into my inside thigh again.

'Not always,' you say thoughtfully.

I wave to the waitress, making a scribbling movement in the air. There's a small queue at the counter, which is littered in a well-organised way with cakes and biscuits and labels and bags of coffee beans for retail. Fairtrade Colombian, Fairtrade Kenyan, and Italian - it seems the Italians don't need the provocation of our consciences. There's a tart old lady a couple of tables away, wearing a thick coat and reading a large newspaper through half-glasses pushed half-way down her nose. In the background the coffee machines are squealing and gargling as hot steam is jetted into groaning cold milk. Your foot eases away from my thigh and I look at you, as you hoist your bag onto your knee and fumble inside. A strand of your hair tumbles down the side of your face and I am speared by love.

The waitress walks over with the handheld terminal and you hand her your credit card.

'Are you sure?' I say.

It's not a money thing - I'm thinking of what it might say on the credit card statement but even as I say it I've worked out that I'm worrying too much. Again. You're there ahead of me. You smile and reach out to touch my hand. The waitress, who has pink hair and spiral tattoos down her bare arms doesn't look the soppy type but she smiles anyway in that way that says it's so nice to see a married couple still so much into each other. I like the delusion, let it linger. You take the terminal and punch in your code, your face all furrowed with concentration. I'm going to make you wear that cocktail dress tonight, the one I've seen in the wardrobe at the hotel. It's why I chose love over lust.

The waitress hands you back your card and gives you a smile which might even be genuine. You tuck the card back in your purse and start to shrug on your jacket. You look up at me where I haven't moved yet, just watching you. There's love in your smile.

'I'm all yours,' you say.

'You tease,' is all I can think of to say.

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I've not spoken to you for over an hour but my eyes haven't left you for a minute.

You're floating around the room, collecting attention. You're wearing the blood red dress with the white flowers, the one you wore in the picture I have of you. The man you're talking to is much taller than you and is bending over into your space just a little too much. He's wearing a brown suit and his white shirt is taut over his stomach, the buttons taking the strain. A waiter approaches with a plate of canapés and the man draws your attention to it. You make a show of choosing, your slender fingers hovering over the tiny shapes. You're being girlish and he's trying to flirt with you. I count to three and on the third count you look up and over at where I am standing, in a group of no one I know. Our eyes meet and there's a flash of something and then you're back to your conversation and the woman on my left is asking me something about what I do for a living and how I know the host.

The conversation goes on around me, like traffic swirling around a man paused on a traffic island, his attention on a girl passing on the other side of the street. There's something kicking inside me and I'm turning it over, tasting it. Love and lust. Like two lovers entangled. From a distance I'm reading your moods, drinking your half-familiar little gestures, sensing the gravity which locks me in your orbit. Deeper, there's something raging, feels like anger but it's exactly the opposite. I think of music: the melody and the pulse, a rhythm driving the melody on. A couple has joined you forming a little group of four. The woman is blonde, slim with that hard edge that well-groomed women with access to money develop in their forties. Her husband is open-faced, sharp-suited, wiry. The tall man straightens, excluded. He thinks about winning his place back with a remark but sees that the moment has gone. Another waiter passes with a half-full bottle of red wine and tall man turns to follow him, dispensed with. You're shaking hands with the woman, introductions being made. It would be rude to look away too soon, so by the time you do my eyes are sliding down your body, nakedly undressing you. Our look connects and my desire takes a harder edge to it. Your eyes ask a question, mine respond. Not just yet, but not long now. There's a half-smile on your face. I'm half-hard already. I wonder if you're wet.

Not just yet. But not long now.

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I've pushed you down in the chair. There's a bedroom lamp nearby and the yellow light glows warmly on you. Your eyes are glazed with lust as I kneel and slowly push up your skirt, over your half-opened legs. Your panties appear and I ruck the hem just above them.

'Spread wider Lei.'

Your thighs hollow at the top as you comply. Your hands are teasing with your hair. You're looking at me half-focused, your eyes on mine but not really connecting. You're seeing all of what's happening, the desire flowing unchecked in you. My hands sweep roughly up the inside of your thighs, making you bite your lip and suck in breath sharply. Your bottom lip flicks out from beneath your teeth as you mouth the word 'fuck'. My fingers are in the waistband of your panties, I want them out of the way, urgently, uncompromisingly. Your legs have to squeeze together so you lift them vertically and press them together. The panties roll themselves into a fine thread as I pull them off and throw them behind me. Your legs come down and you spread again, more than you need to.

My mouth is on you, wide and covering your whole cunt, my tongue darting at your clit like a short, thrusting sword. You cry out sharply and slide down into me, spreading as wide as you can. Your wetness floods gloriously into my mouth and onto my chin. My tongue lashes at you, my eyes fixed on yours, watching the shocks of pleasure course through you.

I take my mouth away for just a second, long enough to register the loss in your eyes, so I can say to you: 'pull down your dress Leila. I want to see your nipples. Work them with your fingers. Be a dirty whore for me, babe.'

Even before my mouth is back on your cunt, you've pulled down your dress and exposed your breasts. The dress cuts a slope line across beneath your standing nipples. With your left hand across your body, your fingers grip your right nipple and roll it. You're already whimpering desperately but I'm in no mood to relent. There's a rage inside me, wanting me to force you, drag you, drive you. Your right hand comes forward and your fingers slide into my hair. Your head falls to one side and your eyes close. Your body is tensing, flexing. I force my tongue deep inside your cunt and hold it there. Your eyes flick back open, widening in wonder.

I'm kneeling on the floor and my hands are scrambling at my belt, fumbling to release my pulsing, agonised hardness. My cock springs free as I drag my trousers and shorts down below the level of my taut balls. My hand wraps around the hot, rigid shaft and strokes it once, twice.

I stand up, my mouth breaking contact with your cunt which makes you open your eyes with a question. I'm towering over you now, slumped in the chair as you are, legs spread, dress rucked up and in disarray. Your eyes drift down to my hard cock, linger there.

'In your mouth, babe.' The rage is directing me. Slowly you unfold yourself from the chair, lean forward and take the shaft in your hand. Your legs are spread wide either side of me but my head slowly snaps back as your mouth closes over my burning hardness. I've lost sight of your open and soaked cunt anyway. The hot, warm, wetness of your mouth is dizzying and my knees start to quiver.

'Oh my fucking god, Lei.' I moan. I place my hand on the back of your head and work my fingers into your hair. You moan. I can feel the pre-cum leaking onto my cock and your tongue swirling to capture it.

I need to fuck.

I pull myself out of your mouth, pinpoints of fire racing and leaping from the base of my balls to the swollen head. I find your hand and pull you out of the chair. The dress falls back down to cover your legs, but your nipples are still shamefully exposed. I pull you into me and fasten my mouth around one of them, working it roughly with my tongue. Your head falls back and I move my mouth to your neck, then up to your ear. My words are hot, soft, penetrating you to the core.

'I'm going to fuck you until I come.'

Somehow the few steps to the bed are slow, an eternity of anticipation. Our hands are locked together, you leading. Your knees bump the end of the bed and you half-turn your head to me, your eyes asking 'how do you want me?'

'Bend over, spread your legs, offer yourself to be fucked.'

I position myself behind you, ruck up the dress again and drive myself savagely in. We groan in unison but our moans abate a little as I hold myself in to the hilt. You're pressing against me, wanting more, wanting harder. I reach forward and grab your hair, your head comes back. Seeing you like that, bent over, impossibly aroused, legs spread, head back, the small of your back arched down the way you know I like it, is just the sexiest fucking thing I have ever seen. Suddenly I'm fucking you hard, hard, hard, thrusting in and out, losing control. The fire is dancing on my cock and I can feel my balls tightening as my cum gathers itself to spurt. I can't stop but I don't want it this way. I pull out and we both groan, you slumping forward on the bed. I start to kick off my trousers and you turn over, onto your back, watching, keeping your legs sluttily spread. My tie goes too, my shirt ripped open. That will do.

I'm on you and pinning you to the bed, your legs up high over my shoulders, my hot breath in your ear moaning shameful things to you; my love, my slut, my whore. We both know this is it. I thrust hard, once, twice, three times and we are both coming, my hot cum spurting deep inside you.

We're a long time coming down, your breathing slowing gently on my chest, our hands joined, our legs joined, the stickiness of sex gluing us together. I may have slept a little, you too, but there's consciousness in the air and the wordless time is ebbing away. My lips brush your forehead and I feel your hand squeeze mine. You shift a little against me, so close.

'Love and lust, babe. You and me. Two sides of a coin. I love you.'

It's all I can think of to say.