Beyond desire

It was Thursday, and for once, Randy and I both had the entire day off. We lay tangled in bed, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the morning stretching out luxuriously before us. Just before 11 a.m., I slipped out quietly to take my birth control, then slipped back under the covers, nestling into Randy’s arms again. Our lovemaking had been slow and intense—threaded with laughter, whispered promises, and kisses that felt endless. Time seemed to dissolve around us as we lingered there, savoring the rare gift of a day completely to ourselves.

Afterward, we stepped into the shower, where the heat of the water was no match for the fire still smoldering between us. Randy pressed me against the shower wall, his hands gripping my thighs as he entered me again. The water cascaded around us as our bodies slammed together, wet skin on wet skin, slick and needy. I wrapped my legs around him and clutched at his back, crying out as we came once. He stayed buried inside me, barely giving us a moment before he started moving again—deeper, hungrier. We came a second time, this one even more intense, our moans swallowed by the sound of the water, before we finally gave in to actually showering.

Toweled off and freshly dressed, I found myself curious about the surprise Randy had hinted at. He only smiled, reaching for my hand as we headed out. We didn’t pack anything because Mark, the owner of the dessert restaurant Randy frequented, had already taken care of the setup—a private picnic nestled inside a small, privately owned park.

The spread waiting for us was nothing short of stunning: a rustic charcuterie board with an array of cured meats, aged cheeses, fresh fruit, crusty bread, and an elegant bottle of wine chilling beside it. I gasped in delight as Randy poured us each a glass.

We lounged in the grass, sipping wine and feeding each other slices of pear and creamy cheese. Everything felt sun-warmed and simple—like we were in our own secluded world. But hunger of a different kind crept in soon after. At least six times—if not more—our bodies found each other again and again after that light snack, the grass soft beneath us and the breeze cool on our flushed skin. At one point, I lifted my sundress and straddled him, my hands braced on his shoulders as he filled me completely. It was primal, feral, and passionate—every thrust echoing with a hunger that had nothing to do with the food. By the tenth time today, I cried out his name as pleasure shattered through me.

As the drizzle began to fall softly over the leaves, we dressed quickly and packed up, laughter spilling between us like the wine we'd just shared.

Back at my house, we moved the sheets from the washer to the dryer and headed into the guest bedroom. There, we made hot, passionate love again—and again. Six times or more, our bodies never getting enough of each other. Eventually, Randy grabbed his phone and ordered dinner from an upscale French restaurant.

When the doorbell rang, he opened it to reveal a decadent spread: roasted chicken, tender beef with demi-glace, buttery mashed potatoes, buttered vegetables, and a delivery of six bottles of chilled wine. He set the table properly this time, complete with plates, utensils, and wine glasses. It felt like a real date, and we took our time savoring every bite and every sip. It was the most civilized part of our otherwise wickedly indulgent day.

By the time we finished four of the six bottles, we were full and content, though I couldn’t wait to get to know Randy better—both inside and outside of the bedroom. We packed up the rest of the food and began making our way toward the stairs, but before we could get far, Randy caught me around the waist and pulled me into him. His lips found mine, then traveled to my neck, and before I could protest, we were tangled again in the kitchen.

He took me right there, on the counter, hard and deep. Then again in the dining room, my moans echoing off the walls. By the time we reached the living room, our rhythm was frantic. He gripped me tight, buried himself deep, and with a final, desperate cry of my name, he released inside me. The force of our climax was so powerful that the old couch cracked beneath us and collapsed. He was worried I might’ve been hurt, but I was fine—sore, breathless, but very much okay.

He hauled the broken couch out to the garage and cleaned up the mess while I curled up nearby, sipping wine. Once everything was in order, we sat together and finished the last two bottles, talking and learning more about each other. There was something easy about the way we fell into conversation, something grounding beneath the fire between us.

Eventually, we remade the bed in my bedroom, moved the picnic blanket into the dryer, and threw the guest bedroom sheets into the washer.

Somewhere in that blissful, wine-soaked evening, an email pinged into my inbox. It was from my boss—an unexpected note saying I wouldn’t be needed back at work until Wednesday. A few well-earned days off, it read. I knew immediately that Randy had something to do with it.

“I just want to know you more,” he said, brushing a piece of hair from my face. “And I mean outside of making love. I want to know what makes you laugh, what keeps you up at night—the stories behind your scars. I want to really know who you are.”

I smiled at him, my heart full. “I want that too,” I whispered back, threading my fingers through his.

Wrapped in his arms, I closed my eyes, not just sated—but seen.

Later that night, just before we finally surrendered to sleep, Randy took me again—this time from behind, his grip fierce on my hips, his rhythm wild and raw. It was primal and beyond feral, his voice rough with desire as he screamed my name into the darkness before we both came undone once more.

I fell asleep exhausted and completely sated, Randy’s arm wrapped around me, the scent of wine and love still clinging to our skin.