My dear Samuel,
Is it cheating for me to leave this in your home for you to find after I leave? Probably not any more than you sneaking a note in my pocket, as I suspect you’ll do again.
As I write this, it’s late at night on my last day in town. Tomorrow, I’ll have to go back to the front line, but I don’t want to think about tomorrow. All I want to think about is what happened in the past few days. And especially what happened tonight.
All together, we haven’t even spent ten days in each other’s company since we first met, and much less than that counting the time you had to go to work this week, but after everything we shared through words on a page, these ten days might as well have been ten months, or even ten years. I told you before that I felt like I knew you, and that feeling only accentuated during this visit. When you start rambling about literature, or talking about your students, or asking more questions about my life on the front line, it all makes me want to smile a little, because it all feels so very you.
It also makes me want to kiss you.
I love your love of literature, how passionate you are about stories that were already ancient long before the demons started appearing, and that you are just as passionate about stories that were only written five, ten, fifty years ago.
I love the way you talk about teaching, and how you give your students more than the basics you are required to teach them. How you care about them and their well-being. They are very lucky to have you as their teacher. Had I had a teacher like you, maybe I wouldn’t have been so eager to leave school and start my military training.
I love how you want to know everything about me, even the boring bits. I can’t remember anyone ever caring to want to know that much. It’s a heady feeling, but one that also makes me feel a little guilty. I should ask you as many questions as you ask me, shouldn’t I? But more often than not, we’re talking about me. It’s not that I’m not interested in your life and your thoughts, please believe me. It’s just that I’ve never been very good at directing the conversation. Also, you’ve told me so much about you, bit by bit, in your letters, that I’ve grown used to receiving these little peeks into your life like unexpected gifts. Why ask silly, unimportant questions, when I know you’ll give me the answers to fascinating questions I’d never think of asking?
I love all those things about you, and much more. I even think I feel the same about you. I meant to write it here, black on white, but it’s turning out harder than I expected. Tomorrow, before I leave, I’ll try to say the words to you. Please forgive me if I lose my courage and leave them unsaid. Just like I hope you’ll forgive me for ending things before they went too far tonight.
No, I shouldn’t say ‘too far.’ That’s not what I mean. I said I want to kiss you, and I do. I’d like to do a lot more than kiss, too. Feeling your hands on me tonight was a lovely feeling. I made it no secret to you that I’ve had lovers before, and even if it’s bad manners to compare, I have to say your touch felt different from theirs. I’ve been searching for the right words to describe it for a little while, and all I can come up with is, ‘reverent.’ When you touched me, when your fingers first clutched my waist to draw me onto your lap then skimmed over my top to cup my breast… yes, reverent is exactly it. You made me feel like I’d never been touched before – and maybe I wasn’t, or at least not like this.
Is it because I am the first woman you've touched this way? Or is it because of what exists between us, what has grown over the course of so many months?
I wish I’d allowed you to remove my top so I could have felt your fingers on my bare skin. Or maybe you’d have liked to use your mouth? You’re a very good kisser, and just the brush of your lips against my nipple, even through layers of fabric, sent bursts of need through me. I can only imagine how much better it would have felt to have your lips on my breasts without any barrier between us.
May I confess that, as I write this, I have a hand under my nightshirt and I’m teasing my own nipples, the way I imagine your mouth would have? And if I’m confessing that much, then I might as well say that, when I finish writing this letter, I fully intend to bring myself to orgasm, all the while thinking of you.
Why did I end it, then, if I wanted and still want you so much? And not just your hands and your mouth on me, but the reverse, too, even if tonight I didn’t dare do much more than stroke your arms and neck.
To be honest, I’m not sure why I stopped everything and said good night.
Maybe because I was afraid to hurt you. I felt your erection as I was sitting on your lap, but really until that moment I wasn’t sure if your accident had taken from you more than the use of your legs, and I don’t know if sexual activities would damage your body or cause you pain. I should have asked, shouldn’t I? I guess I’m asking now. I’m not a prude, but I have no idea how I would have started that conversation, face-to-face.
Or maybe I ended it because it was going too fast. We’ve known each other for months, and yet, like I said, we’ve spent very little time together. It’s never bothered me with former lovers, but you know by now that they didn’t mean to me anywhere near as much as you do, and rushing into something physical would have felt wrong somehow.
Or maybe I didn’t want us to start when in just a few hours we’ll have to part again. It’ll probably be six weeks before I can come back to you. To have your hands, your mouth, your cock (oh god I never wrote that word before it feels so strange to see it spelled out in my own handwriting) for only one night and then have nothing but memories for weeks… it would have been difficult for me, and for you too, I imagine.
But now that I’m alone in bed, it seems that not having these memories and only relying on my imagination won’t be much better!
Should I sneak out and join you in bed?
Would you welcome me if I did?
You’re only down the hallway. It would take me mere seconds to knock on your door. Would I wake you up, if I did? Or are you still awake, as I am? Thinking the same kind of thoughts, maybe? Wondering why I didn’t allow us anything more than a kiss?
God, I want to join you. I need to. My fingers are between my legs now, and I’m imagining that they’re yours, Samuel. I wish you could feel how wet I am for you.
Next time I come to see you, I’d like to make love to you, to have you make love to me. And it won’t be just one night right before I have to leave.
Shall we, Samuel?
Until then, I remain
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