I’d been dating Mei for about four months when it happened. She’s 24, born in Shanghai but grew up here, petite with silky black hair down to her waist, soft almond eyes, and that quiet shyness that always drove me crazy. We’d fooled around plenty: long make-out sessions on my couch, my hands under her skirt, her grinding on my lap until we were both breathless. But every time things got really heated, she’d stop me just before I could slide inside her. She was traditional in some ways, wanted to take it slow, and I respected that, even if it left me aching
It was a quiet Thursday evening in early December, and for once the apartment was completely mine. My roommate had gone to visit her family for the weekend, and I had the whole place to myself until Sunday. I’m 25, single after a messy breakup a few months ago, and lately I’d been craving touch more than ever. The kind of deep, aching need that keeps you restless at night.