I wake up, and something is wrong. I'm on the wrong side of the bed. I sit up and see the dent in the other pillow, the covers pulled up. Ian. Holy mother of god, I remember all of Ian, and he is not in the bed. I listen, but everything is silent. I am alone in the flat. The clock says it's 7:30. The sky is overcast.

I get out of bed and find my robe. My clothes from the night before are folded on the armchair. Except for my panties which are missing. Creepy panty stealer? I take the clothes with me to the bathroom to throw in the hamper. The panties are there. Okay, so not a creepy panty-stealer, just a slightly less creepy panty-mover. While I brush my teeth, our night plays through my mind, and by the time I've spit out the toothpaste, I'm in want again. Oh yes, again and again and again.

The electric kettle is filled in the kitchen, and the tea is ready for me to make. There is a note in very small, neat handwriting. It says:

Dear Annie,

Thank you for a lovely evening. I have an early meeting, and I'm sorry I had to leave you. I will pick you up at 6:45 . Wear the skirt that looks like a cupcake?

Xxxx

IEH

Cupcake? I make the tea. In a way, I'm happy Ian is not here. Having just been relieved of semi-virginity, everything is sore or aches. The backs of my arms from holding on tight, my feet hurt from curling toes, and my nipples are telling me about how happy they were, as they touch the inside of my robe. As I drink my tea and look out the windows at the park, the night plays through my head. Exhilarating, terrifying, amazing night. I need a hot bath. I need to wash my hair.

I have a Zoom call with my daughters to tell them about the date. I don't tell them he spent the night. They are old enough to know, but I'm still processing whether I'm easy, desperate, or slutty. Or all of them at once. In three years, there have been men and a few women interested in me, but I didn't want any of them. Not like this.

Despite my lifelong dislike of calling people, I call Ian late in the afternoon. Phone phobia runs in the family.

"Hello Annie," he says when I reach him. "How are you?"

"Very well, thank you," I say. "Thank you for putting the keys through the slot and setting up the tea."

"Sorry I had to leave so early, I had to pick up my car and get home for a call. You looked so peaceful I didn't want to wake you."

"That's fine. I have a question for you."

"Sixty," he says.

I laugh. "Good to know, but not my question."

"March 18th," he says.

"No, no, let me ask."

"Six feet in my socks."

"Stop! No! All good to know but stop! What is the skirt that looks like a cupcake? I've been trying to sort that all day."

"White with lots of little pink flowers, in layers? It looked like a cupcake to me. Good enough to eat, like the rest of you. You are amazing, Annie. I can't stop thinking about you."

"Shhh, Ian, I feel the same. I will be ready at 6.45."

We say goodbye and disconnect. I wonder if I should eat dinner. I text to find out, don't like making phone calls.

I'm ready at 6:45, shoes on, jacket at the ready, in tights, a silk blouse, and the cupcake skirt. Ian texts to let me know he is parking the car and will be up in a minute. I go down the stairs to the front door to meet him as he is walking up the garden path, and my heart makes a small, interesting leap in my chest. He looks better than I remembered, and I thought he looked very, very good the last time I saw him naked in my bed.

He takes the front steps in twos when he sees me, and I'm in his embrace in a moment. He kisses me on the mouth like it was last night; my arms are around his neck, my body pressed into him, the warmth between us. I've dropped my pocketbook; keys, a lipstick, and some coins are around my feet, but the only thing is his mouth on mine, his arms around me, the warmth of his body against me, and his hand sliding down over the back of my cupcake skirt. My knees are shaking. Ian lets me go as my neighbor Chris clears his throat softly. He and his wife Joan are waiting to use the door we are blocking. We sheepishly part, but Chris and Joan are grinning.

"I think you dropped your bag," Joan says.

Chris gives Ian a raised eyebrow, "Have a nice evening, Annie." he says to me.

I pick up my pocketbook, and Ian gathers my things for me.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello, you."

"Nice to see you again."

"Nice to kiss you again," I say, and he laughs.

In the car, we look at each other for a long moment, smiling the secret smile of new lovers. A little more making out, and then we are on our way, his free hand on my knee.

Our destination is a Georgian house that was once a small estate but is now used for conferences, parties, and the occasional wedding. It is a beautiful house, elegant as the light just begins to fade from the day. Our gathering is in the large upstairs room. There are small tables and armchairs arranged about. At one end of the room, a lonely-looking podium stands. There is a buffet with nothing on it yet and a full bar with no bartender at the other end. No guests had arrived yet.

"Are we early?" I ask Ian.

"Uh, yes. I have to be here to finish setting up."

"Ok. What do we need to do?"

"I have to open this box, and then we're done until 7:30."

"What exactly is this 'thing'?"

"I'm the current chairman of the local Independent CPA Organization. ICPAO # 6. My main function is to not punch Craig and keep others from giving him a whack as well, and to give a very short speech before the serious drinking starts. Craig is seriously obnoxious, and there has been talk of making a No Craig rule at the next executive meeting."

I sit in a chair as he opens the box, and takes out three small plaques. It is now 6:58.

"What else do we have to do?" I ask.

"That was it. Would you like to see the house?" he asks. "We have plenty of time."

We pass the bartender and the waitress pushing a cart laden with fruit, crackers, cheeses, and little fancy cakes on our way out the door. Ian takes my hand, and we tour the rooms on this floor, then head upstairs. Here the rooms are smaller, but the views are better as the light leaves. There is a door at the very end of the hall that leads into a very small sitting room, just two soft chairs and a divan arranged near one small window. Ian closes the door behind us. He locks it.

"Want to keep me?" I ask.

He doesn't answer. The bulge in the front of his pants gives away his intentions, and I step forward. This time it's a desperate kiss, hard, wanting, and wet. I'm in his arms, hands on his back, on his belt, pulling it free, unbuttoning his nice dress pants, throwing his tie over his shoulder, pulling up my skirt, his hands on my tights, working them down my legs; I hop on one foot to the divan. We almost roll off, both being hobbled, but we are finally free enough. His cock looks bigger than it had last night, beautiful, so hard and smooth, pre-cum shining at the tip. I moan at the sight. His fingers are between my legs, stroking my thighs then my pussy, one finger slipping between my wet lips. His cock is then pressing between them, pushing upwards into me, with long hard strokes. His mouth is on mine, then my neck, biting, kissing, one side then the other. He slides his hands under my ass, lifting as he thrusts into me.

"Yes, baby, oh fuck me!" I find myself saying over and over, words that feel strange in my mouth. He does what I ask, filling me, my hips rising to meet him, wanting.

"You feel so good, so good," he tells me against my neck, "Oh God." We are both breathing hard, and I feel my orgasm stirring, building, almost here, an irresistible ache, rising and rising until I'm cumming on his cock, afraid I might break him. This feeling in the center of my being, radiating through me and Ian's body, is all there is in the world. And then he is cumming, too; I feel him shooting his cum deep into me, grunting, and I'm moaning into his shoulder. We stay tangled together, his pants around his ankles, my tights are only attached to one leg, my blouse and skirt both pushed up, and I have lost a shoe. Amazingly his tie is still over his shoulder. We look at each other and begin to laugh. As I laugh, cum is leaking from me, which makes me laugh harder.

"I messed up your pretty hair," he says, trying to push it back into the fancy clip that was holding it.

"I messed up the divan. Probably should have brought a towel." We try to straighten our clothes. As he tucks his shirt in and buckles his belt, he watches me smooth my tights up my legs. He straightens the hem of my skirt for me. I pull his tie back to the front, and kiss him on the lips, a loving, warm kiss. I bend down to find my shoe, and he squeezes my behind. "You know it's good when you lose a shoe," I tell him, and he hugs me hard.

"I think I should go to the ladies for repairs," I say as he unlocks the door. There is lipstick on his neck and the shoulder of his pale blue dress shirt. "And you might want to put on your jacket and get the lipstick off your neck," I tell him.

"I like it there," he says and delivers me to the ladies. I quickly fix my hair and my face, trying not to look too freshly fucked. I'm pretty sure it shows in the shine in my eyes and the teeth marks, though. This should be a great ICPAO #6 event.

He waits for me at the door. I ask how he knew about the little room. He tells me it had been his grandfather's house, and he used to play here when he was little.

"So, have you taken other plus ones to your playroom?"

"No, just you. You are the only plus one I've ever brought, even though it's obviously the hottest invitation in town." I laugh. " You are the only woman I that I think might be in any way strong enough to be in a room of independent Chartered Public Accountants, all drinking and discussing tax law. And survive."

True to his word, Ian has put his jacket on but not washed the lipstick off his neck. My hand is in his as we walk into the room that is slowly filling with people. There are some surprised glances and a few double-takes. It would appear that he truly has not brought anyone to ICPAO #6 parties. He gets me a glass of sherry and guides me with his hand on the small of my back or my elbow, not leaving me alone with people I don't know to fend for myself for very long except when he has to give his two-minute speech and give out the three plaques to retiring members.

As the evening progresses, I feel his cum wetting my thighs and tights as it leaks out of me, and it gives me a secret smile. There are some very good stories about horrible, obnoxious, obstinate, dim, or just plain weird clients, and most try not to bore me too much with new tax laws and intricacies of independent CPA-hood.

I am having a lovely time being a plus one. Ian has the little coaster sketch I made of him at the bar in his jacket pocket and shows it to some of his particular friends. When our backs are to the wall or the windows, his hand strokes my thighs under my skirt, occasionally squeezing my ass. I want him again and press into his hand.

I end up sitting with two older ladies as they wait for their coats to be fetched. Both have questions about being an illustrator, widowhood, and why I'm in England, but mostly about how long I have been dating Ian. I field all of them except how long I've been dating Ian. He brings my jacket and helps me into it, his fingers just brushing my nipples as he adjusts it for me. I breathe out a sigh. He says good night to the remainders, tips the waitress and the barman generously and we leave. On the way back, we stop at a chemist that is still open. He tells me he will be right back.

He returns with a new toothbrush. "Your place or mine, darling?"

"Yours." I put the toothbrush in my pocketbook, and after he has started the car and pulled back onto the roadway, I take his hand and press it against my pussy. His eyes meet mine, and his hand gets comfortable, stroking me with clever fingers.
"Ohhh nice, darling," he says as my heat warms and wets his hand.

The drive to his house seems to take no time at all.