Page 4 of One More Gift

The table seats six, far too big for the small dining area in her little country cottage, but I know when she’s out here, she likes to pass the time with a jigsaw puzzle. Something to keep her hands busy and away from her phone so she doesn’t slip into the habit of working all hours of the day.

In New York, I go to basketball games to unwind, but each to their own. She won’t need a puzzle this week, and she sure as hell won’t be emailing anyone on my watch.

She takes the seat across from me, and I’m grateful for the chance to sit and look at her while we eat.

“Is this Shepherd’s pie?” A ridiculous question when I know full well I’m staring at a plate of my favourite meal.

“Sure is,” she says, biting into a piece of broccoli with a satisfied grin on her face.

“When I asked you to rustle something up, I meant like a sandwich.”

She shrugs like this was nothing. “It was already in the oven.”

That’s Saskia for you. She has the purest heart of anyone I’ve ever met and if you’re in her life, you know you’re lucky to have her.

“You’re too good to me, you know that, right?”

It should feel strange being here with her after so long apart, but it’s anything but. My foot rubs against hers underneath the table, and unlike previous occasions, she doesn’t pull away.

We lose ourselves in talk of art over dinner, giving updates on our clients' recent purchases, name-dropping in a competitive game of one-upmanship we’ve been playing ever since we tookour first positions as art dealers. Who’s buying art under a fake name, who’s splurging on pieces for mistresses, who might be going bankrupt in the new year. Of course, confidentiality is key in our world, and we’re often required to sign NDAs, but there’s nobody I trust with my secrets more than Saskia.

When we finish, she carries our dishes through to the sink, but I follow behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist to pull her away.

“I’ll wash up in the morning while you lie in,” I murmur against her neck. From this angle, I have a perfect view right down the front of her sweater. Those perfect tits, full and pressed together in whatever bra she’s chosen.

The ties of her top are looped around her waist and fastened in a neat bow at the back. I want to tug the ends free and watch the fabric fall from her skin, but that can wait.

She moans softly, tilting her head to give me more access to her smooth, delicate skin. The urge to lick her, suck my mark into her flesh, bite down just hard enough to make her whimper is all-consuming. For now, I settle for breathing, deep and slow, right above the surface of her skin.

Saskia has always loved the thrill of anticipation. You can see it in the way she works, the flush of colour in her cheeks right before she seals a deal. I’ve seen it many times over the years, though not nearly enough lately.

I wonder how high I can get her just from the anticipation of my touch. How squirmy and desperate she would get before she begged me for more.

Nuzzling my face against the side of her head, I inhale the clean scent of her shampoo. “Let’s sit in the living room.”

She practically whines, which only spurs me on to make her wait even longer.

While I top up our wine glasses, Saskia bends to add a couple more logs to the fire. I suck in air through my teeth. Her bodylooks like heaven, and this outfit is a real fucking test of my patience.

It’s better suited to a day in the office than a relaxing weekend in a cosy remote cottage, but I know she’s made an effort for me, even if she’s trying to pass it off as casual. Mark my words, she’ll be extremely comfortable soon, and hopefully won’t be wearing much more than one of my t-shirts for the foreseeable future.

My cock twitches beneath my jeans. That’s my core memory of her, the morning after we first slept together all those years ago. Her legs, unfathomably long, disappearing up underneath the t-shirt that skimmed the tops of her thighs as she climbed back into my lap. Not a scrap of clothing underneath.

Fuck.

I think about it a lot more than a decent man should.

I take a seat on the longer of the two sofas, the one that sits in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace. This is a room that she designed with love and attention, a perfect escape from busy city life.

Saskia hovers, fiddling with a decoration on the tree. She’s understandably cautious now that I’m here. We’ve grown up, found our way in the real world. We have more to lose now.

She takes a seat at the other end of the sofa, kicking off her fluffy slippers, then tucking her legs up underneath her. I pat my thigh and she rolls her eyes, stretching her legs out until her feet are in my lap.

“That’s better,” I say, taking a sip of my wine and settling the glass down on the coffee table. I smooth my palm down from her shin to the top of her foot, wrapping my hand around it and pressing into the underside with the pad of my thumb.

Saskia groans lightly, sinking further down against the sofa cushions. I keep working my thumb along her arch, watching how the rest of her body responds.

“How was your flight?”

---