I love his hands, elegant and strong, the hands of a pianist. I love the way they feel on my skin, the way he cradles my face before he takes that first kiss. His hands might have been the thing surprising me the most that first time he kissed me - not his mouth, not those beautiful lips, not that addictive taste.

Though his mouth was nothing to sneer at. Patrick knew how to kiss. I watched him practice with a wide range of women over the years, and teased him mercilessly about it. But that first kiss was a surprise, and has left me hungry ever since. His lips are soft, a stark contrast to the slight scratch to the skin surrounding them.

I love that contrast, so different from the feeling of my husband’s mouth. I love the contrast between these two men I know so well, love that they know and use this, husband and friend. Patrick is the more forceful, his taste an explosion of sensual familiarity to my senses. I have breathed him in, have felt him at my side since childhood and he is like the well loved blanket you never quite can give up.

I feel the smile against my lips as he moves back to survey his handiwork. It makes me grin. I know how I look, luxuriating here on the black bedspread which shows up my too pale skin, the lightly sagging breasts and stretch marks after Janna’s birth. I look like the woman I am, close to middle age, a body that shows signs of life. It does not matter, not with this man, not with this friend. It does not even matter that he had only become more stunning over the years, his physique settling into the definition of manhood, muscles and lines simply asking to be touched. I try to reach for him, but he captures my hands before I can satisfy my skin hunger.

“No - my turn. Remember.”

A teasing reminder in a voice so deep and seductive it made women swoon. He has caught both my wrists in one of his hands above my head. He knows me well. And so do I him. I bow my back, let my breasts stroke along his skin, startling a moan from him. I love that sound.

He captures my laughter with his mouth, his tongue, his breath; laughter has always been part of our interludes. For a moment we just rest there, brows touching, sharing our breath and smiles. Wordless. There is no need to speak, we have long since passed the time when intimacy needed verbal communication.

His hand strokes down my side, finding all those places I love being touched, those places special only to my body. His fingers massage soothingly over the faded imprint the bra strap has left, dip into the curve of my back before finding my buttocks. I love the way his hands meld to my skin, before he raises my hips to slide me along his skin. Something primal in me loves that show of strength.

But I am not willing to be quite so passive. My legs are long and I know how to use them; they slide along his side, my foot playing over the skin of his leg, along the inside of his knee. He is ticklish there, I know that. His revenge is a quick, sharp bite on my neck before he laves the sensitive skin soothingly. It makes me writhe. I have never understood why my neck is so sensitive but a caress there can send me directly into arousal, more so than my breasts. For a long time I felt strangely lacking, unfeminine because of this; I got over it. Partially, because of this man who knows too well how to touch, to tease. I expect him to do just that, expect him to let his mouth travel over my skin in a languid caress, nibbling, biting, stroking. I expect him to torture me with hands and lips until I beg for mercy. Anticipation makes my stomach cramp, lets goosebumps shiver over my skin. His smile is predatory and pure evil. Then he pushes into me in one strong movement.

The invasion is a shock, sudden and oh so pleasurable. I love the stretch, the feeling of velvety steel in me, the difference in temperature. He does not let my recover, does not let my body adjust to his but uses the pain, the confusion between insufferable pleasure and painful overload. He pounds into me, his eyes a constant demand, a constant dare. He loves this, loves to drive me crazy, and he does it well. Pleasure rises, swamps me, takes away my rational mind and leaves only him, only this familiar intimacy, a haven.

When Patrick opened his business three years ago he knew it would be hard, knew he would be skirting the edge of profitability for a while. I knew it too when I came to work for him and I knew that there might be lean times. So when the business is not liquid enough to provide the benefits, well I take it in another form. What can I say, we are friends.