That First Night with Romain: Nervous Trembles and Raw Surrender
I knew he’d show. Right on time, there he sat at that café table. My stomach twisted. Intimidated, excited. Smile? Nope. Emotions choking me. Stéph warned me: just a wanker, act proud or crash hard.
Steps away now. What to say? Music? Books? Lame. Closer. He stares. Do I still look good? Took extra time dressing this morning. Casual, like always. Why bother glamming up if clothes come off soon? Or maybe not. Talk, eat, talk, nothing. Starved.
The Approach: Jitters and Inevitable Pull
Too close. Legs shake. Heart pounds. Not a teen anymore, but feels like it. Gut aches. Can’t reach him.
“Hi, kiss?” Romain says.
“Yes…” Boom. Lips crash. Stay in his neck, cheek. Want his mouth. Slow down, Camille.
Chats flow awkward. Hot chocolate for me, coffee him. I spill about lunch breaks here with colleagues. He admits following me. Spots his ring—grandma’s, on pinky. Has an 8-year-old, Thomas. I’m divorced, two kids, 4 and 8. Free, sorta.
Adventures? Plenty, no strings. Divorce scarred me. He grabs my hand. Tremble. Dinner invite. Tears prick. Kids covered. He pays. I follow.
Car ride. Eminem blasts: ‘But then I see my baby…’ World lifts. Eyes shut, body hums. Want him bad.
Restaurant eyes lock. Life chats—careful mine. His boy’s photo, cute. Mom has him this week. Divorce question? Dodge. My countryside house: calm, garden. He prefers city coziness.
The Instant and Afterglow: Breaking Free
Nervous silence. He cracks: “I want you. Obsessed since spotting you laughing outside this café. Followed you. Love you. Let me love you.” Hand squeezes. Heat surges.
Shocked. “Me too. Make love now.” Bite lip. Toilets: eyes red, pep talk. Not a schoolgirl. He’s 40, like me. Kids? Whatever. Want him.
Home directions. Radio Kyo: ‘Send it flying, no looking back.’ Fitting. House glows. Klaxon. “Come in. Drink?”
Pour wines, hands brush. Electricity. Heart hammers. Sit close. His eyes devour. Lean in. Kiss deep, tongues tangle. Nervous laughs. “Bedroom?”
Stairs blur. Door shuts. Clothes peel frantic. Shirts off. His chest hairy, warm. Hands explore—trembling fingers on my breasts. Nipples harden. Gasp. Pants drop. His cock hard, throbbing. Mine wet, aching.
Push to bed. Straddle him. Guide in. Slow. Stretch. Full. First real connection like this post-divorce. Thrusts build. Sweat slicks. Moans escape. His hands grip ass. Pound harder. Clit grinds. Tension coils.
Explode. Shudder. Him too, hot inside. Collapse. Panting.
After: tangled sheets. His arm heavy. Innocence shattered—not virgin, but walls down. Vulnerable. Heart full. No regrets. New horizons. That night, truly alive again.
