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Erotica | Reunion Sex | Old Flame | Hotel Hookup | Oral Sex | Dirty Talk | Rough Kissing | Former Crush

Reunited With My Old Study Partner For A Long Overdue Night — 1

The tension from years ago finally exploded the moment we closed the hotel room door.

The bass of the old throwback playlist banged through the hotel ballroom, as if it was trying to drag every buried memory to the surface.

I walked through the double doors in a tight emerald green dress that clung to my tits and ass like it was painted on, heels clicking against the polished floor.

The air was filled with the scent of expensive cologne, spilled cocktails, and that familiar feeling of “what the fuck happened to us?” and “what the fuck happened to us?” and “what the fuck happened to us?”

I hadn’t planned on coming alone, but life has a way of fucking with plans.

I looked around the room, and I saw some faces I didn't see since we were all young and stupid, and that's when I saw him.

Tall, wider at the shoulders, with the same sharp jawline and the same dark eyes that once looked at me over the library table like he was undressing me in his head.

He was standing by the bar, laughing at something some guy was saying, but the second our eyes met the laugh died down.

It was replaced by a slow, sinister smile.

My pulse kicked up.

Back then we were study partners, late nights studying for exams, sharing a cheap pizza, acting like we were just studying together.

We never went over that line.

I was about to, but I pulled back.

Tonight felt different.

The years had hardened him, made that quiet intensity more solid, more imposing.

I walked right over, hips rolling with each step, letting the dress do its job.

“Still stealing the attention in every room, I see.”

He turned his entire body toward me, his eyes slowly moving down my body, and then back to my face, in a shameless way.

“Goddamn. You look like trouble wrapped in sin. Come here.”

He grabbed me and hugged me for too long, his large hand resting on my lower back, fingers touching the top of my ass.

I could feel the hard muscle under his shirt, I could smell his cologne and something else, masculine.

On the day we parted, he had his hand on my waist as if he owned it.

We ordered drinks (whiskey for him, a spicy margarita for me) and sat at a high-top table at the edge of the dance floor.

The talk began nicely, it was just surface chit-chat.

Now he was an architect, working in his own practice, travelling constantly, still single after a messy divorce two years ago.

I explained to him what I did for a living, the promotions, the hustle and bustle of the city.

We laughed about how many times we pulled an all-nighter before finals, and how I used to sleep on his couch with my face in a book.

However, the small talk was undercut by a crackle in the air.

His eyes never left my mouth, my tits rising with every breath, the slit of my dress that revealed a lot of thigh.

I slowly crossed my legs, allowing the cloth to rise up, and saw his jaw tighten.

“Remember that night we almost…” he began, his voice now dropping to a whisper, his lips close to my ear.

Yeah, I said, taking a sip of my drink.

“Remember, you had your hand in my shirt and I was too chicken to put up with it.”

His smile came back, but this time it was a grimace.

“You were always the smart one, but we're not kids anymore.”

His voice made my name go straight to my core.

We continued to speak, about foolish professors, wild parties, the friends we had lost touch with, but each word was significant.

He bumped my knee under the table.

I didn’t pull away.

Rather, I pushed back, allowing my calf to rub against his.

The tension was like a slow burn, thick and addictive.

Old friends and acquaintances arrived and departed, old classmates dragging us into group photos and small talk, but we always found our way back to each other.

When the show ended, most of the guests were leaving for the after-party in the ballroom or getting an Uber home.

He leaned in, his warm breath against my ear.

My room is on the 22nd floor, there's a private bar, and the whiskey is better than this watered down shit. You coming?

I didn’t hesitate.

“Lead the way.”

The elevator ride was quiet and weighty.

We stood side by side, shoulders touching, the mirrored walls reflecting us like a promise.

As the doors opened, he placed his hand in the small of my back and let me go out first, and we walked down the hall.

As soon as the door of the hotel room closed behind us, the mood changed.

No more small talk.

He placed his keycard on the table and glared at me with his eyes hungry.

“Back then, I couldn't stop thinking about you, you have no idea how many nights I jerked off thinking about you.”

I came closer, running my hands up his chest.

“Show me what you wanted to do to me.”

He didn’t rush.

He pressed me against the wall, his hand on my jaw as he kissed me.

It began from the first second, deep and filthy, his tongue sliding in my mouth, claiming, tasting the margarita on my lips.

His other hand wandered down, squeezing my tit through the dress, rubbing his thumb over my hard nipple and I moaned into his mouth.

“Fuck, these tits feel even better than I thought they would,” he growled against my lips.

He pulled down my shoulder straps, releasing my breasts.

They were plump and plump.

I saw him and he groaned, leaning down to suck one dark nipple into his hot mouth, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make my pussy clench.

I arched into him, my fingers in his hair, holding him there as he switched to the other nipple, sucking harder.

My hands opened his belt, pushed his pants and boxers down.

His cock was thick and heavy, with veins running along the length, the fat head already shiny with pre-cum.

I held it in my hands and rubbed it slowly and firmly from the base to the tip, turning my wrist at the top in a way I knew made men go crazy.

He hissed, hips bucking my fist.

I whispered, “Been dreaming about this cock for years,” and started pumping him up even more.

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