The Ex-Lovers Ch. 01

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Ben met Hannah at a coffee shop and asked her out.
3.2k words
4.28
17.1k
14

Part 1 of the 7 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 05/28/2014
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"Sure," said Hannah, and my heart leapt into my throat. She reached across to my table and picked up a notebook from beside my laptop. She tore off a corner of paper from one of the sheets in the back and said, "Give me your number."

It taken a little more than two weeks of 'casually' bumping into her at the local coffee shop, gradually testing the waters, to work up the courage to finally ask her out. I sat by her even when there were plenty of open seats. We made desultory conversation about what we'd done in college. She asked me to watch her things when she got a refill, instead of the girl two tables away. And finally, on a blustery spring day in late April, she'd chosen to sit by me, and I took my chances.

We agreed to go out for dinner the next night, Tuesday. Saturday might have been more customary, but Hannah was going out of town all weekend, and more importantly I didn't want her to change her mind. Plus, I suspected Hannah didn't want me building up The Big Date too much in my head.

She may have had a point. Apart from a single drunken one-night stand, I hadn't had any kind of love life since getting dumped the semester after graduation, and I couldn't even remember the last time I'd gone on a proper date. Work just ate up too much time. So I was nervous to begin with, and her tacit refusal to give me her phone number or her address (so I could pick her up from her apartment) looked to me like I already had two strikes against me.

Work, as usual, kept me occupied until the next evening, but I made sure I left myself time to drop everything off at home and get ready.

As it happened, I was almost ten minutes late meeting her at the coffee shop—'our' coffee shop, I guess. She was waiting for me, and didn't notice me at first. Hannah's style was understated and modestly casual, but I could tell her outfit was carefully chosen. Her sandy blonde hair was braided on either side, framing her face cutely. She had traded her glasses for contacts, with eyeliner only slightly darker than usual around her glowing hazel eyes, and just a trace more lipstick. Although her clothes were just slightly out of fashion—deliberately, I suspected—they were quite neatly pressed and gave her figure a beautiful line.

Hannah turned her head, scanning the room, and when her eyes landed on me, she brightened visibly, with a warm, happy smile. My nerves melted away, and I said, "Hannah, you're looking beautiful."

"Why, thank you," she said. "And you're looking quite handsome yourself, Ben." Before I knew it, she pulled a bright green yarn cap over her head and wrapped her arm around mine. We walked out into the cool air together, strolling down the hill into the old market toward the restaurant I'd suggested. She rested her head against my shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and from that moment it was definitely a date.

After the waiter left with our orders, Hannah took a sip of wine and smiled nervously. "Look, Ben," she said. "I'm sorry that I'm so guarded. It's just I actually need to tell you something."

"No, no," I said. "Not at all. You're really nice. I think—" I stopped. "Sorry. I shouldn't explain your feelings to you. Go ahead and tell me what you want to say."

She cocked an eyebrow slightly—and a beautiful eyebrow it was, too, her eyes twinkling curiously in our table's candlelight. "It's just a ground rule I have. You seem like a nice guy. But you should know I don't want to be in a relationship right now. I'm okay with actual dating, like going on dates. Taking it slow. I just don't want to rush into anything. I'm sorry."

Then Hannah briefly—very briefly; I could tell she just wanted it off her chest—explained that her previous boyfriend of a little more than two years had dumped her by basically telling her he had other plans on Valentine's Day. Hannah felt as if her life had crashed and burned, and she had to start over again. She was only eleven months out of college with a degree in art history, working two part-time jobs, and trying to freelance as a designer.

The conversation went from there. I had similar problems putting together work as a web developer after I graduated three years ago, and the job market hadn't been a friendly place in a long time. We discovered our views on aesthetics in design were quite compatible. Hannah spoke with passion and authority about the hidden language of imagery, media and form. Her razor-sharp mind followed my ideas toward implications I had never considered, and made even the most arcane notions seem vibrant and relevant.

When the waiter asked us the second time if we wanted any dessert or another bottle of wine, I glanced at my watch and realized we had been talking non-stop for well over an hour.

"Oh—we're going to miss the movie," she said.

"That's okay—I don't need to see another sequel," I said. "What do you think about another drink?"

"I'm a little light headed," said Hannah. "How about a walk?"

Outside the restaurant, we wandered through the brick-paved streets where the last snows of spring had shrunk into corners not touched by sunlight. It was brisk, and cool. Hannah had her arm around my other arm now, and as our conversation resumed I paid no attention to the lefts and rights we took. Talking to her was wonderful.

About halfway down one block, outside a small brownstone, Hannah stopped and turned to face me. "Well," she said. "This is me."

I felt my face drop. I realized I didn't have any friends like her, and I desperately wanted to spend more time with her. "Oh," I said. "Well..."

I leaned down to her awkwardly, and she seemed surprised. Hannah pulled back for a moment, and then stretched up to give me a quick peck on the lips. We stood looking into each other's eyes. She was waiting for me to speak.

"I had a lot of fun," I said. "I really love talking with you. So, I guess, good night—"

"Hey," she interrupted. She put her arms around my waist and hugged me toward her. "I said this is my place. I was hoping we could have another drink, look at some art folios and maybe kiss a little more."

Hannah's apartment was smallish but comfortable, filled with books on every available surface. The walls were covered in prints of Impressionist watercolors and semi-erotic studies of nymphs dancing around water. There was a very expensive tripod in the corner, looking out of place next to the second-hand furniture.

"Do you do photography?" I asked. "That's quite a tripod."

She nodded. "Some, but I'm just borrowing it. Whiskey's on the table there."

I cracked open the twist-top and Hannah produced a few coffee mugs with ice.

"Sorry," she said. "I don't have any short glasses and I don't have any soft drinks."

"This is just fine."

"Come in here. I want to play you some music."

I followed her into the bedroom. We sat on the bed and talked for another hour, sipping liquor, talking about Surrealism and listening to slow guitar jazz. My thoughts were swimming after a full day of work and worrying about the date, and it was a relief just to be sitting so sedately. Gradually it dawned on me that I was alone with a woman, in her bedroom, for the first time in a very long time.

I took her drink and set it on the nightstand alongside mine. I simply said, "I want to kiss you."

"Oh yeah?" she said. Hannah rolled over and lay on her back. "What makes you think I want you to?"

She had changed into blue jeans and a heathered green t-shirt with a deep V-neck collar. I had tried not to steal glimpses of her cleavage as we talked, but now her breasts fell to her sides. She was braless. Her nipples crinkled happily under the shirt.

I just leaned back over and lay beside her. I stroked a strand of hair away from her hazel eyes, and she looked up at me. Her hand reached under my arm and rested on my back, beneath my button-up shirt, caressing my skin.

Hannah was quivering as our eyes locked. In the next moment, she moistened her lips with her tongue and dove upward toward my mouth. Our kissing was long and full and deep.

Her hair and skin had a gentle, welcoming scent of vanilla and cocoa butter. As she caressed my cheek, I became self-conscious about my stubble; I hadn't shaved since morning. "Sorry," I said.

"No," she said. "I love your stubble. It feels...manly."

Now my hand had found its way from her hips to the small of her back, and I pressed her toward me, to feel her firm tummy up against me.

"Slowly," she said. Then, as we kissed and nuzzled, she began opening my shirt, button by button. When my shirt hung open, Hannah pulled up my white undershirt, and her nimble little fingers played across my abdomen.

"Nice abs," said Hannah.

We lay side by side, our t-shirts raised so that our skin touched. Her eyes were full and glistening in the low lamp light, devouring me. She wasn't tired at all—she felt full of hot life as she kissed me, caressed me and watched me do the same to her.

"Now," she whispered. "I unbuttoned you. You unbutton me."

I slid my hand away from her warm back, along her side—she flinched slightly as my fingertips grazed a ticklish spot—and caressed her right breast and nipple outside her shirt. My thumb traced lazily along the crease of her areola.

"Is this slow enough?" I asked, whispering.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Lower."

With the same leisure, I caressed her side again, worked my fingers beneath her thin cotton shirt, and traced upward again. I held her breast in my hand. Her nipple was taut, but her body was on fire and I could feel her heart thundering in her chest as we kissed.

She moaned as I touched her and kissed her. She broke our embrace, nuzzling my neck, and took my hand in hers. "Lower," she whispered, pulling my hand away from her breast. "Lower. Unbutton me."

A bit faster than she had opened my shirt, I worked open each button on the fly of her tight denim trousers. I reached beneath and felt along the soft cotton down to the furnace-like heat beneath.

Hannah sighed in pleasure. Then she said, "We can't go much farther."

"Let me touch you," I whispered.

"Touch me."

Her abdomen was toned and athletic, with a feminine softness. I traced from her navel toward a tuft of hair at the top of her underwear. I opened my eyes to take in what she looked like. Her underwear were ordinary cotton, with thick alternating bands of lighter and darker pink.

Hannah sat up, smiling. "Okay," she said, and kissed my cheek. "Take a look." She pulled off her t-shirt and cast it over the side of the bed.

I put my hand around her waist and pulled her to me again. Her breasts heaved up against my chest, and we kissed more deeply than we had all night. My fingertips worked their way down into her underwear. Her neat landing strip of pubic hair bristled against my digits, and parting her vulva I found her soaked to the core.

Hannah wrapped my white shirt collar around her fist and pulled me toward her, tying me into her embrace. "God yes," she whispered. "Do it."

Though it had been ages since I'd had a woman in my arms, I kissed her cheek and touched her gently, and as I explored her body I found I knew the way instinctively. Her clit was engorged and it was making her whole body ache. Slowly and carefully I worked my fingers toward her clit, approaching her in gyrations.

"There—there—oh, fuck, kiss me—"

We lay in silence. I listened to her gasp and pant as I worked her clit faster and faster until my forearm burned. Hannah's eyes were closed tight, and she had a death-grip around my biceps, her body undulating against mine.

I could tell Hannah was fighting not to make noise, biting her lip and making strangled little moans. She rocked against my hand, doubling the pace, and her pussy tensed around me as her body went rigid. Her arms were now clenched around my back, clawing at me, and her hips rocked just slightly beneath my slowed touch. "Oh Ben, Ben," she stuttered, then opened her eyes.

They were bright, glowing hazel in the soft amber light. Her mouth was hanging open. She was just about to say something, as if she needed to say something, when she inhaled two or three short breaths. Every muscle in her body seemed to release. Her pussy flooded, and let go an indescribably orgasmic moan at the top of her lungs. Her voice fell again into unending kisses on my lips, consuming me with her eyes, murmuring a stream of words I couldn't quite hear.

Eventually we settled into stillness, lying on our sides facing each other, on top of her quilted bedcover. I realized a book of Dalí paintings was jabbing me in the back.

"That was wonderful," she said. "So wonderful. God, I need you inside me."

Just as soon as she said it, her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not like that. I hope you don't think—"

I grinned like an idiot and kneeled up on the bed. "Don't worry," I said, pushing the art book aside and pulling off my button-up shirt. She lay on her back, looking up at me. Her breasts were amazing; her nipples had released and seemed warm and glowing. I leaned down and kissed each one, tonguing it slightly. "It's okay," I said, and I lifted my mouth to hers and kissed her. She responded with tongue.

As our lips parted, she squeezed her eyes shut, put her hand on my shoulder and said, "I can't. Not so fast." She opened her eyes, kissed me again and traced her fingertips across my stubbly jaw.

I nodded.

"And so," she continued, peering for my reaction, "I don't think it's a good idea for you to stay the night."

I lay back on the bed beside her. "I understand," I said, wishing I didn't. "It's been a great night. We can take it slow."

"Well," she said, "don't pull on your boots just yet."

She grabbed the book off the bed, slid down and padded across the room to set the book on a teetering pile of a dozen others on a chair across the room. Her breasts were medium-full, moving slightly as she moved, and the soft downy hairs on her flat belly were raised on end. I could see the thin strip of pubic hair peeking out from her pink underwear, in a triangular frame with the open flaps of her blue jeans.

Hannah turned to me and posed slightly, giving me a three-quarters look at her in contrapposto. She cupped her breasts in her hands, raised them and teased her nipples for me. Then she slid her hands slowly down her torso and hooked her thumbs underneath the waist of her jeans.

She leaned down toward me, arching her back like a dancer as she pulled down the jeans to reveal her athletic thighs and shapely calves. Hannah kicked off the jeans, picked up her heather green t-shirt and came up onto the bed on all fours, looking like a cat ready to pounce.

"Hm," I said. "I thought you didn't—"

"Oh, I know," she said, smiling. "But there's slow, and then there's selfish. I don't want to go any farther tonight, but fair's fair. Just lay back."

Hannah opened her nightstand drawer, brought out a bottle of massage lubricant and rested it against my chest. Then she lay down on the other side of me, kissed my cheek, kissed my nipples and ran her fingers across my chest. Her breath was hot on my neck.

Hannah looked me in the eyes as her left hand found its way to my khakis, and she didn't break eye contact as she unbuttoned, unzipped and teased her little fingers into my boxers to caress my rapidly hardening cock. She grasped it tenderly, and smiled devilishly as I groaned and slowly closed my eyes.

In another moment, I felt cool air around my manhood as she pulled my boxers and trousers down, and then her breasts pressed full against my chest as she took the lotion with her off hand and poured it over her hand and my cock together.

The lotion was room-temperature cool and I took a sharp breath. Hannah smiled and looked back at me, twisted her body perpendicular to mine and exhaled warm breath over me just a centimeter from my manhood.

Then she began to stroke, working the lotion all over my shaft. She lay beside me again, working faster and faster, whispering sexual encouragement in my ear. My cock was beautiful, she said, and warm, and she wanted me to come for her.

I gave her a word of warning, and Hannah moaned, "Do it, do it—yes, do it just like that"—as a volcanically hot spurt of thick white come shot out of me, up over my stomach, across her forearm and onto her breast.

"Good boy," Hannah said, scraping the sticky come off her tit with her come-covered fingers. "A very good boy." She picked up the heathered green t-shirt and used it to wipe our bodies off.

"Stay there," she said, as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, pulled my undershirt down and reached for my things.

Hannah stood up, stretched—and twirled around for me as she did so, lifting her arms over her head—and put the lube back in the nightstand alongside a sleek silver vibrator that caught my eye.

She quickly pulled out a box of wet wipes and closed the drawer. Then she wiped herself down in front of me, grabbed a new wipe knelt down in front of me to clean me off.

As she stroked the come off of my shaft, it twitched involuntarily back to life. Hannah smirked at it and said, "Enough for now, tiger. Go back to sleep."

She finished off by running the tissue off the very tip of my cock. Hannah looked up into my eyes, smiled and said, "There we are. All done." As a finishing flourish, she gave the tip a dainty little kiss and pulled my boxers back up.

Once I had dressed she escorted me to the door. "What about this weekend?" I asked. "When can we go out again?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'd really love to, but I already have plans. Soon, though. I'll call you soon."

"Maybe we'll run into each other in the coffee shop," I offered hopefully.

She smiled. "I'd like that." Hannah closed the door and I found my way out into the cool night air, feeling happier than I had in years.

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thesidelongviewthesidelongviewabout 9 years agoAuthor

Thanks much for the feedback; it's all welcome. Would be nice to have the stuff edited to be stronger, but that becomes its own problem. Definitely making use of some of these ideas as I keep writing 7, 8, 9.

rudeshrewrudeshrewabout 9 years ago
Hey, who left this Dali book lying here?!

Solid writing--I have a few suggestions, and please take them or leave them, as you prefer. Crit/suggestiony stuff first, praise second. ;)

Try a "brutal edit." A brutal edit is when you go through and cut ALL adjectives and adverbs. After you read the new version, you decide on a small number of places to add adjectives/adverbs back in, but for the most part your writing will be stronger without them. (Examples: "framing her face cutely" --> "framing her face" ... "dumped her by basically telling her" --> "dumped her by telling her") But keep the "hot" in "full of hot life," because that's too awesome to mess with. ^_^

There are a number of places where I'd say you should be using the past perfect tense (had studied, had worked, etc.). Past perfect expresses the idea that something occurred before another action in the past. (Example: "I had had similar problems putting together work as a web developer after I graduated three years ago...")

You might want an editor/proofreader just for some little things that you, as the writer, probably aren't noticing as you proof your own work. (Example: "She grabbed the book off the bed, slid down and padded across the room to set the book on a teetering pile of a dozen others on a chair across the room." "Across the room" x 2, there. Just minor things like that.)

I wanted to see the narrator's reaction when Hannah suddenly, rather startlingly hugged him and invited him upstairs!

Nice use of the senses. So often people stop at the visual and perhaps tactile; I appreciate you getting into scent, especially. You could add more of that. Too much description can be irritating, but your descriptions are good and I think you could add more without going over the top.

I love the little details--for example, the Dali book jabbing the narrator in the back on the bed. Touches like that make a story so much more fleshed-out and interesting.

Good stuff. Thanks for posting! Your subject matter isn't really in my usual area(s) of interest, but I very much enjoyed this story.

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