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I Remember You (An Erotic Romance) - Isis Cole, page 1


I Remember You (An Erotic Romance) - Isis Cole

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I Remember You (An Erotic Romance) - Isis Cole

  I Remember You (An Erotic Romance)

  Isis Cole

  Published: 2013

  Tag(s): "anal sex" "group sex" "teen sex" sex romance relationships

  I Remember You

  Isis Cole

  Copyright © 2013 Isis Cole

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  I want to know what you think about this book. Did you like it? Did you hate it? What do you want to read about? Let me know at:

  isis.nice.is (at symbol) gmail dotcom

  And I will send you a coupon code for a free Isis Cole book at Smashwords.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly a coincidence, and takes place only in the imagination of the reader.


  Michael Burke stood in the outdoor summer heat of Quincy Market, in the midst of a large crowd, as a burly street performer balanced a wooden chair on his big caveman chin. Balancing a chair was one thing. The fact that a small blonde-haired boy, randomly selected from the crowd, was sitting in the chair, made the act all the more impressive. The fact that the performer was juggling several bowling pins while balancing the boy and the chair, brought the whole thing to another level.

  Still, Michael wasn’t interested in the juggler, or daredevil, or circus freak, or whatever the man considered himself. Instead, he scanned the people coming and going, looking for a face he knew. He didn’t know what to expect. The few pictures he had seen online of her were associated with her job at a university, and didn’t do justice to the 18-year-old girl he once knew. She was 38 now.

  In college, she had been the most beautiful, and sexiest, girl at the university. By a lot. Now, despite the maddening crowd of Boston tourists, and the stifling heat, and the sun beating down on his head, he found himself once again imagining her as she was then.

  The first thing anybody noticed was the hair. It was long and brown, and curly. It hung down her back nearly to her butt. She wore funny hats a lot. Top hats, cowboy hats, jester hats. She got away with it. The hair helped. The face also helped. Devastating. Not vapid all-American, magazine pretty. A dark Mediterranean beauty, with olive skin, high cheekbones, and pouty lips. A real person.

  But who was he really kidding, after all? The thing about her was her body. Firm, with full breasts, a perfect size, not too large, not too small. And that was fine, but everything really happened below her waist. She had a round apple bottom, an oh-so-spankable ass, the kind of ass that he couldn’t stop obsessing over in those young, horny days. Her legs were long, too long for her body, and strong. There was an inch of space between her thighs. He thought of how she used to wear skin tight black leggings and big cowboy boots. He nearly groaned out loud at the thought of it.

  He remembered a summer day on Martha’s Vineyard, so long ago. Her family had money and they had a house on the island. To Michael, this kind of money was a new thing. He had never experienced it before.

  The house was secluded, and there was a desolate beach nearby, a gorgeous open stretch of sand and surf that sat at the bottom of tall bluffs. One day, they were on that beach. She wore a tiny yellow bikini. He had taken a dip in the ocean. The water was cold, brisk early summer water. He came back to the blanket dripping wet and shivering. He found her lying in the sun on her stomach, her top undone, her breasts pressed against the blanket.

  Her butt faced him, her legs spread the tiniest amount. That inch! That wonderful inch of space gave him a view of her pussy and ass just barely covered in the thin, stretchy fabric of the bikini.

  Was she sleeping?

  The sight of her like this heightened him instantly. He was young, after all. He kneeled down behind her. Slowly, he sank onto his chest. Inside his wet shorts, his erection pushed hard against the hot sand. He lowered his face toward that yellow strip of fabric between her legs. This close, he could see the sweat on her tanned thighs.

  His tongue flicked out, almost of its own accord. It ran along the inside of her left thigh, licking there, tasting the salt of her sweat, moving slowly up the line.

  “Mmmm, Michael,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. “This is a public beach.”

  “There’s nobody here,” he said. “I checked. Anyway, there’s no way I can stop. You’re too damn sexy.”

  His tongue had a mind of its own. It reached the hem of her bikini bottoms, and moved along the edge of it. His strong hands moved along her thighs, first just stroking them, then gently gripping them. His tongue moved to the space between her legs, then pressed firmly against the fabric there. He felt a heat rising from there. It created a scent, a musk, that drove him insane with lust.

  “Mike…” he heard her say, her voice deep in her throat.

  The hot sun beat down.

  His hands moved to her ass, his fingers snaring the waistband of her bottoms. He peeled them downwards.

  “I don’t think we…” she said, but she raised her ass to accommodate him, to make peeling away her clothes all the easier. He pulled the bottoms down her thighs almost to her knees, but no further. It was sexier like this somehow, her little yellow panties half on and half off. It was like she was tied up. It made her his prisoner, right here on this public beach, quarter of a mile from her family’s house.

  Her ass and her pussy were exposed to him now. Inside his shorts, his erection was massive, throbbing. But he didn’t dare put it in her. Not yet. He wanted to make her cum first, he wanted to watch her rising orgasms, one after another, that he knew his tongue would give her. Then he wanted to take her, her ass raised to the sky, her face pressed to the blanket. He wanted to slide his dick inside her soaking wet, hot pussy, slowly at first, then faster and harder, fucking her like an animal, while she whimpered and moaned and growled at him.

  He put his tongue directly against her ass. He pushed it inside her hole, driving it deep, penetrating her.

  “Anh,” she said.

  His hand strayed to her pussy, feeling the heat and the moisture there. The heat was already like an oven. She was already soaked.

  He drove his tongue inside her ass again. She pressed her body hard against his face. He knew from experience how much she loved his tongue there, how hot it made her, how fast and how hard the orgasms would come.

  He looked up, and here she came now, winding her way through the summer throngs of Quincy Market, the moms and dads in khaki shorts and sandals, the children with their ice cream cones, the tourists, the drunks, the dreadlocked teenagers in ripped army surplus shorts and t-shirts with slogan written on them in black magic marker.

  She wore a light flower-print dress, drawn at the waist with a black faux-leather belt. Her hair was still long, though not as long as it once was. The body seemed much the same. When she turned sideways to squeeze through the crowd, he caught sight of her round ass, that ass which used to keep him awake at night. It was still there, an apple, a pear, a strawberry which once begged to be covered in his cream.

  Her face was different, though. As she came closer, he could see that she carried the years in her face. It was still very pretty, beautiful almost, but thinner now, and lined with something he might think of as worry.

  Still, when she saw him, she smiled, and her eyes lit up, and for a split second there was something of the old delicious intensity there.

  “Hi Michael,” she said.

  “Hi Rachel.”

  They paused, awkward for a second as all the old hurts flashed through. Then they hugged. They eased into it, a formal sort of hug at first, which slowly melted into the real thing. Then their
bodies pressed together, and they were alone in the midst of hundreds of people. He felt that he could push it further, he could become entangled with her, flesh to flesh, soul to soul, that she wanted this, but he was reluctant. It was too much, way too much, way too soon.

  When they pulled apart, she looked up into his face. “How long has it been, twenty years?”

  He nodded. “Just about twenty years.”

  “Well, you haven’t aged a day,” she said.

  “And you lie like a rug,” he said. He gestured toward the cobblestone street along the side of the Market. “Should we walk?”



  They walked into the old North End, where so much of the country’s early history had taken place. Many of the buildings seemed just as they had been the night, more than two hundred years earlier, when Paul Revere left his blacksmith shop and went on a midnight ride.

  Rachel liked history, and had always loved this neighborhood, as much for its ethic Italian flair as anything else. She had no idea what Michael thought of it.

  As they walked, she was surprised by an urge she had. The urge was to put her hand in his as they walked along. She remembered how when they were young, he was so much taller than her that when they held hands, she felt like a little girl walking with her daddy. And now it was like no time had passed at all. Like they were that same couple from so long ago.

  She almost did it. She almost reached out and…

  “How about this place?” he said.

  It was an Italian place, naturally, with a small outside section on the street, tables made for two with white linen tablecloths. It looked expensive. All these North End restaurants were expensive. Besides the excellent food, the price was what they were most known for. She hesitated.

  Three years before, during her divorce, and the vicious and outrageously expensive court battle that ensued, she found herself doing something she had never done before: thinking about money. Her ex-husband Tim (she mostly thought of him as The Jerk now) was a corporate lawyer, and although he was the cheater, he spared no expense trying to gain custody of their two girls.

  In the end, Rachel won. Tim got the girls two weeks in the summer, two weeks at Christmas, and one weekend a month. Rachel had them the rest of the year. But to achieve that goal, she burned through more of her trust fund than she cared to think about. It was worth it, every penny, but budgeting was a reality for her now, as it had never been before.

  “I’m buying,” Michael said with a smile. “Your money’s no good here.”

  She returned his smile. “Okay.”

  She sat across from him at an outdoor table. The sun was warm and welcome on her back. It was a quiet day, a Sunday, and there wasn’t much traffic on the street. She realized that this was the first chance she’d had to get a good look at him.

  He had changed. Twenty years will change a person. When she knew him, his hair was a jet-black, messy tangle - rock star hair, like Jim Morrison or the singer from INXS. His eyes were light green and intense, eyes that were on fire. He was thin back then, a young body that wouldn’t keep weight on. It didn’t matter what he ate or drank. He never gained a pound.

  He wore his hair short now, and it was gray at the temples. There was a light in his eyes still, maybe there was still a flame there, but it wasn’t a raging fire. His facial features were harder than before, almost chiseled. His body was different too, thicker, more muscular. He looked like someone who pumped iron.

  “You’ve been working out,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I have a guy who comes in three mornings a week. He works me half to death, then he leaves. I’ve been on a health kick the past few years. Since I kicked the coke, and the smokes, and the pills, and whatever else I was doing.”

  She had read about his battles with alcohol and drugs, of course. She had followed his life for ten years. Michael wasn’t famous, but he was known. He was a songwriter who had worked with some very big pop stars. He had written chart-topping songs. You could read about him in Billboard, and in the gossip rags.

  Married twice. Divorced twice. In rehab. Out of rehab. A five-year period of astonishing productivity and success, and then a complete disappearance from the music industry.

  The waiter came, asking about drinks.

  “Wine?” Michael said.

  “Should you?” Rachel said.

  He shrugged. “A glass of wine with lunch or dinner… yeah, it’s not a problem.”

  The wine came. They ordered. A long time later, the food came.

  They talked about this or that. Rachel told him about her life in Wilmington, North Carolina as a college professor, and about her beautiful daughters. Trisha was the soccer star, about to enter junior high school, and Linda was the artist and writer, wowing her teachers in the fourth grade. Rachel was almost bursting with pride when she talked about the girls. She could feel it in her chest. She didn’t talk about the divorce. It was water under the bridge, and she might as well keep this lunch date positive.

  “I’d like you to meet my girls one day,” she said.

  He nodded. “That’ll be nice. I can be Uncle Mike.”

  Michael talked about his career, the years he spent as the songwriting partner of Billy Ray Deuce, the parade of top ten hits they had. He described a party on the roof of a hotel in Manhattan, thrown by the record label, a celebration that cost half a million dollars. He talked about eating lunch with Billy Ray at an outdoor restaurant in Los Angeles, random people walking up and snapping close-up photos of the pop singer with their telephones.

  “They don’t even ask,” Michael said. “They just walk right up, one after the other after the other, click, click, I own you now. I got your picture. Billy Ray’s just sitting there sipping cappuccino the whole time like nothing is happening.”

  Rachel watched him. Older now, still so very handsome. She thought of how when they were in school, he was a scholarship kid, how he worked all the time just to stay afloat. He worked in the university cafeteria mostly, but also in the snack bar at the campus center. And he bused tables at swanky events held at the business school. He even convinced her to work with him one night.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said.

  “It’s easy. I’ll show you everything.”


  “Come on,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”

  Was it fun? It was a new experience.

  She wore a black mini-skirt with sheer stockings underneath. All the rich old men, the business titans, hit on her. One man did more than just hit on her.

  She stood at a table of ten people, taking orders. It was a fast-paced job, and it was hard to keep everything straight. She tried to concentrate on the orders. There were only three choices. Chicken. Salmon. Steak.

  Suddenly, she felt a hand on the back of her leg. Slowly, it ran up her leg, up under her skirt, and rested on her butt. She looked down and to her right. The man smiled up at her. He had a crew cut and an elegant pinstriped suit on. It was funny now to think that he was probably forty years old. He seemed fit, and strong, and very, very old.

  “That’s a nice girl,” he said. “Take your time. We’re patient people.”

  She felt a hot blush rise to her face.

  He was feeling her up, right there at a table full of people. He did it casually, like he owned her. She glanced around the table to see if anyone noticed. No one did. The man slid his hand between her legs. For some reason, she didn’t pull away. She was too embarrassed. She didn’t know what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Soon, she became hot where his hand touched, and wet.

  She spread her legs just slightly. The firm hand cupped her there. She pressed against it. It was a confusing, but delicious feeling. A finger expertly found her clitoris through her stockings and began to massage it.

  In a moment, she left with the orders, but when she returned to the table, she went right back to the same spot. The man’s hand quickly returned to its pla
ce. His fingers resumed their exploration. He rubbed her clit, rubbed it and rubbed it. She stood there like an idiot, speechless. She had already given the people their plates of food. She had other tables to cover. There was no apparent reason why she was still there. Except she wanted this man’s hand between her legs. She wanted him to put his fingers inside her. She wanted him to bend her over the table and take her in front of this crowd of people. She was so hot, and a stranger was nearly bringing her to orgasm right there in the crowded catering hall.

  At the end of the night, the man gave her a fifty dollar tip and his business card. She glanced at the card. He was CEO of something or other. Captain of a fleet of ships. Some damn thing. She kept the fifty dollars, and threw the card in the trash five minutes later. Then she and Michael walked back to his tiny apartment.

  She was like a wild animal that night. Before they even got undressed, before they showered, after so many hours on their feet, she attacked Michael as soon as they came in the door. She pushed him back onto the narrow bed.

  “I want to fuck you,” she said.

  She was so hot, she just ripped her stockings. She couldn’t waste time taking them off. She pulled them apart from the center, tearing them open. She ripped open his pants, practically clawing at the zipper. He was hard, reliably hard like teenage boys always are, and he had a very good size. Already wet, her panties soaked, she pulled them aside, and mounted him. She slid onto his hard cock and rode it. She pressed herself against him.

  “You should work catering with me more often,” he said.

  In the first minute, she came. But she kept riding. Over and over the orgasms pulsed through her, and she rode him and bounced on him and fucked him, until gradually, her climaxes became less intense, and subsided, and then she lay on top of him, her arms behind his neck, her head resting against his chest. She listened to his heart beating, fast and hard at first, then after a while, slower and more gently, and then a while later, his chest was rising slowly and rhythmically, deep breaths, his heart beating very slow, and she realized he was asleep.

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