8 year crush

the desire had grown for years, almost ten, but not quite. As she laid in bed, knowing he was breathing next to her, she smiled, unable to sleep. Her professor was there, lying next to her. She had dressed up for him for two semesters. Carefully choosing what would make him more nervous. The literature talk was just an excuse for foreplay.
She couldn’t sleep, she blinked and smiled. They hadn’t even kissed. They had met finally after many years, dinner with just a cup of white wine. Long stories, many heartbreaks and walking on the cobbled streets. He put his arm around her, and they talked.
He had to go back to another city, she told him it was too late. She told him she had a futon.
Eight years after they had met on different sides of the classroom she set up an old futon for him, gave him a tour of her house. She was an adult now.
They washed their teeth together, strange to share that intimate moment.
She told him that the futon was old, it might be uncomfortable, that if it was too horrible he could jump into her bed and spoon her. “But I don’t do the outside part of the spoon…”. So, he said, if I come I should hug you and my chest should be against your back. Exactly.
The futon was used for five minutes.
Their pajamas for fifteen.
A desire that had been boiling up for eight years while each one of them laid on their side of the bed. He hugged her. She felt him growing. He began to kiss her neck, touching her hands, caressing. She sighed.
His hands under her shirt, around her belly button, up her shirt. Her shirt off.
His shirt off.
He smelled of cardamom and smoked firewood. She inhaled him.
He kissed her, longingly.
It was eight years later and it was as if their bodies had been suspended at that moment. The kisses and caresses where part of a history that had been written in a classroom. His fingers went inside her. She saw the memories past.
She sucked him, with such a force that he began to tremble. They smiled. They exploded at the same time, one after another after another.
They fell asleep in each others arms. An ocean of sweat spreading on the bed, mixing their odors, their smells, their consumed pleasure.
He woke up with her touching him, waking all of him up. As he went into her, she felt eight years crumbling around her, inside her. She pressed her muscles, pressing him, making him want her even more. She squeezed him into her, biting his shoulder, he kissed her, their hands together, clinging to the sunrise.
Eight years of desire melted into one night.
Sleeping with a university professor is as pleasing the day he gives you your notes as well as an encounter years later. They had spooned, he on the outside, she on the inside, their skins writing a new story.