Rekindled

*He waited fifteen years to feel her skin against his again.*

---

Windsor in bloody June. Hotel rooms with stark white linens and air con that clicked and hummed but never quite managed the job properly. That's where this begins.

I was drowning in tender documents in Cambridge when Helen's message lit up my LinkedIn. Fifteen sodding years since that weekend in her hotel room, and now she was back in England, just a 90-minute drive down the M11. The wife was at home with the kids, planning another tedious barbecue for the weekend. I hadn't touched her, not really touched her, in years, not since the children came along. Intimacy had become another chore on the family to-do list.

"In Windsor for a sales conference. Leaving tomorrow evening. Tea for old times' sake?"

Just eight words and my body remembered everything. Helen Wei. Five foot nothing in her stockinged feet, with those deep brown eyes that missed nothing and that pristine Singapore business-woman exterior that had crumbled so spectacularly in my hands all those years ago. Christ, I remembered how her skin tasted, how she'd bitten into the pillow to keep from screaming, how the hotel neighbors had complained anyway.

"I can drive down from Cambridge. Breakfast at your hotel? 9:30am?" I typed back, my fingers slightly unsteady.

Her reply came instantly. "See you there."

I told Sarah I had a client meeting, and took the M11 towards Windsor. Greater Anglia trains clattered past, packed with commuters staring at their phones, their lives ticking forward one identical day at a time. Rain started halfway down, proper English summer that, but by the time I reached Windsor, sun broke through, making the castle's stone facade luminous against the darkened clouds, each battlement sharply defined as if newly carved.

Helen was waiting in the hotel breakfast room, looking as composed as she had in Singapore all those years ago. She'd let the silver streak through her black hair now, no dye job for her, that was never Helen's style. She wore a perfectly tailored navy suit that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment, sipping tea with her back straight. A proper professional. But I knew better. I remembered what happened when that suit came off.

"You drove 90 miles for breakfast?" she asked, that precise Singlish accent still in her voice after decades away. I'd always found it mesmerizing, alien to the Cambridge academics' practiced drawls.

I sat down across from her. My body had changed since she'd last seen it. Marathons and triathlons had stripped away the softness of fifteen years ago. Back then, I'd been just another slightly paunchy project manager. Now her eyes lingered on my shoulders, my forearms as I picked up the menu.

"Took the day off," I said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere else entirely. "Personal matters to attend to."

The waitress brought me Earl Grey, strong and black. I noticed Helen cross her legs under the table, the whisper of sheer stockings against skin. My mouth went dry. I'd always had a thing for her legs, especially in stockings. Memories flooded back: how I'd bound her wrists with them, while I'd taken her against the hotel window, her breath fogging the glass as she came.

"You're flying back tonight, then?" I asked, finding myself turning my wedding band, a nervous habit I couldn't shake.

"Six o'clock from Heathrow," she confirmed. "Back to the Lion City."

The breakfast conversation was unbearably civilized. Her work as Sales Director at Powertrunk Engineering. My consulting gigs. The bloody tech scene. All that pretense. But underneath ran something so potent I could hardly focus. Our eyes locked for too long. Fifteen years collapsed in an instant.

"I saw that article you posted about tech integration," she said, buttering her toast with surgical precision.

I laughed. "Corporate obligation, that. Publish or perish." My eyes found hers. "I've noticed you always like my holiday messages. Fifteen years of Happy Chinese New Year."

"The only messages we've exchanged," she said quietly. "Hardly the continuation I once imagined."

After breakfast, I looked at my watch. 10:45. Hours stretched before us, possibilities boundless.

"Rather lovely day, actually. Have you seen Dorney Lake? It's not far."

Helen paused, weighing the invitation and all its unspoken implications. "I haven't," she finally said, her voice giving away nothing.

"We could go over. Just to continue our conversation," I added, knowing we both understood what I was really suggesting. "It's where they held the Olympic rowing in 2012."

The drive to Dorney was brief, ten minutes through Berkshire countryside that was almost offensively picturesque after Cambridge's flat landscape. We discussed our children, my two increasingly distant teenagers, her Mei applying to Russell Group universities. I tried to ignore how her perfume filled the car's interior, how close her hand was to mine on the gear stick.

"Just here," I said, turning onto the tree-lined approach to the lake.

We walked along the water's edge, watching rowers glide past with mechanical precision. A few coaches shouted instructions through megaphones, their voices carrying across the water.

"They make it look so bloody easy," Helen commented, watching a four-person boat slice through the water.

Our arms brushed as we walked, neither of us acknowledging the contact. The conversation drifted into increasingly dangerous territory with each step.

"Are you happy?"

The question caught her off guard. "That's rather direct."

"We used to be direct with each other," I reminded her. "Before the corporate speak took over. I seem to recall you being quite explicit about what you wanted, how you wanted it." The memory hung between us, charged with fifteen years of unspoken desire.

Helen considered the question, her eyes calculating possibilities, the same expression I'd seen when she'd negotiated million-dollar contracts. "I'm content," she finally said. "That's not the same as happy, is it?"

"And what do you want now?"

"To feel something unexpected," she admitted. "Life becomes so predictable after divorce. Work, Mei, more work. I miss not knowing what's coming next." She turned the question back to me, her hand finding mine on the bench between us. "What about you?"

I looked out over the lake, my hand stroking her silky thigh. "This morning, I woke up knowing exactly how the next thirty years would play out. Same routine, same conversations, same side of the bed." I met her eyes. "Then your message came through, and suddenly I couldn't predict the next thirty minutes."

"Do you ever think about that weekend?" I asked. "Cambridge?"

"Only bloody time I'm back in England," Helen admitted, cheeks flushed. "Can't stop thinking about how you had my wrists pinned. Made me beg for it, didn't you? Filled me so deep I thought I'd split in two. Christ, couldn't walk straight for days after, could I?"

"I remember how fuckin' wet you got for me. Christ, so bloody tight. Your legs were shaking, weren't they? Soaked right through the sheets." My hand still on her thigh, fingers digging in slightly. "Haven't fucked like that since, Helen. Not even bloody close."

The drive back was dead quiet. Could barely breathe with her next to me, like all the oxygen had gone somewhere else. Pulled up at the hotel and turned to her. "I should get back to Cambridge soon."

She just looked at me, those eyes making the decision. "I don't check out till three."

That was that, wasn't it?

We walked down the hotel corridor without a word. Knees a bit wobbly, if I'm honest. When the door closed behind us, for a moment we just stood facing each other.

"Fancy a beverage?" Helen offered, nodding at the minibar.

"Nah," I said, closing in on her. Couldn't help myself, could I? "I've been wanting a taste of you for fifteen bloody years. Thinking about how you felt, how you tasted... kept me up at night, it has."

Helen looked up at me, and Christ, that height difference still got me. Her tiny frame next to my six-two. Made her look almost fragile, which she bloody well wasn't. "I didn't plan this, you know."

"Nor did I," I replied, voice gone rough. I reached into my jacket, took out my wallet, a condom.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "You came prepared."

"Hopeful," I corrected. Then, seeing her expression, "Is that presumptuous?"

Helen smiled slowly, and I could see the desire in her eyes. "Presumptuous? Absolutely. But not unwelcome."

I didn't realize how desperate I was to touch her until my hands were finally on her body. I backed her against the wall, lifting her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist. My mouth found hers, and fifteen years of restraint evaporated. She tasted of mint and something uniquely her, something I'd dreamt about countless nights.

"Fuck me" she whispered against my mouth. "Now."

I half-carried, half-stumbled her to the bed, snogging like teenagers. Couldn't stop, could we? Dumped her on the mattress and she was at me straight away, yanking at my jacket, fumbling with my shirt.

"Get these bloody clothes off," she hissed, proper narked. "Too many sodding buttons."

I just ripped the shirt over my head, couldn't be arsed with the rest of the buttons. Couple went pinging across the room.

Helen gave me a proper once-over. "Blimey," she said, running her hands over my chest. "What happened to that soft bloke from Cambridge? You've gone all... fit."

"You've changed a bit yourself," I said, already working at her posh blouse. Hands not quite steady. "But I reckon you taste the same where it counts."

I peeled her clothes off bit by bit. Christ, she'd kept herself in shape. Better than before, if that's possible. Bit softer round the edges maybe, but in all the right spots. When I saw those stockings under her skirt, my cock went so hard I thought I'd pass out. Hadn't felt that kind of hunger since... well, since her.

"Still wearing these," I said, voice dropping lower. "I've dreamt about your legs since Cambridge."

What followed was better than any wank fantasy I'd cobbled together over fifteen sodding years. I shoved her back onto the bed and got stuck in between her thighs, couldn't be arsed to take her knickers off proper, just yanked them aside. She was dripping already, her cunt slick and hot against my tongue. I lapped at her clit and she arched up, grabbing fistfuls of my hair.

"Thomas," she gasped, her perfect accent dissolving. "God, yes, just there."

I slid two fingers inside her while maintaining pressure with my tongue. She was exquisitely tight, tighter than memory had preserved, and when I curled my fingers upward to find that particular spot, her hips bucked off the mattress.

"I still bloody remember what gets you off," I muttered against her flesh, not lifting my face. "Know exactly how to make you come, don't I? Still the same spots after all this time."

She came hard against my mouth, thighs proper quivering, knuckles white on the bedsheets. I didn't let up, kept at it while she shuddered down. Then went straight back in, rougher this time. Second time round was always a bigger bang for her. That much hadn't changed.

When I finally got inside her, I nearly shot my load straight away. Tight as a bloody vice, wet as November in Cambridge, scorching hot. Perfect. Had to pause, gritting my teeth.

"Bloody fucking hell," I growled against her neck, trying not to lose it like some sixth-former. "Fifteen years and you still feel fan-fucking-tastic."

"Move," she commanded, nails digging into my shoulders. "I need you to move."

I began with deliberate slowness, watching her expressions as I established a rhythm. Her eyes closed, lips parting. I lifted her legs, positioning them over my shoulders. Her eyes flew open with the deeper penetration. That's precisely what I wanted, to see every reaction, every flash of pleasure crossing her features.

"Harder," she urged, all that prim business bollocks gone in an instant. Pure animal need in its place. "Harder, for fuck's sake, Thomas."

I went at it properly then, each thrust making the ancient plaster dust the headboard. The old building groaned and so did we. When she came again, clenching so tight around my cock I thought I might black out, I lost it completely. Buried myself deep and let go, probably bellowing her name loud enough for the whole bloody county to hear.

We collapsed together, sweat-soaked and utterly spent. I rolled to one side, keeping a possessive hand on her hip, not quite ready to separate completely. We lay catching our breath, the hotel air conditioning struggling against the heat we'd generated.

When she finally glanced at the clock, it was nearly two-thirty. "I need to check out soon," she said. "Then to Heathrow."

I nodded, suddenly reluctant to let her go. Found myself wanting to keep her in this room indefinitely, to explore every possible way to bring her pleasure. "I could drive you," I offered.

"No," Helen said, gentle but decisive. "It's better this way." A clean break, like before, though something suggested this time would prove different.

She nipped off to shower, and I followed her in, couldn't help myself. Shoved her up against the cold tiles while hot water pelted down. Needed one last taste, didn't I? One more feel of her slippery skin on mine. Last chance to get my fill before real life barged back in. After, we got dressed without much chat. Couldn't stop watching her though. The way she rolled those stockings up her legs, slow-like. How she did up each button with steady fingers while mine were still all thumbs. Proper put herself back together, didn't she? Like we hadn't just shagged ourselves silly. Me still sweating, her looking ready for another bloody sales pitch.

When fully dressed, I retrieved my wedding ring from my pocket, sliding it back onto my finger. The weight suddenly felt foreign after the afternoon's liberation.

"I've meetings in Singapore next quarter," I said suddenly.

Helen nodded. "October?"

"October."

At the hotel entrance, our farewell was necessarily brief, merely a handshake that lingered slightly too long, our eyes communicating what words could not. Yet I felt the warmth of her palm against mine, a familiar heat containing promise.

"Safe flight," I said.

"Safe drive back to Cambridge," Helen replied.

In the car returning up the M11, rain resumed. Typical English summer, that. Cambridge would be thoroughly soaked by my arrival, ancient college buildings gleaming wet in the fading light. The wife would inquire about my client meeting. Children would be quarrelling over whatever streaming app currently held their interest. Life continuing its predictable pattern.

But nothing felt remotely normal now. My body still resonated with memories of Helen. With October's promise. I sent a text from the service station: "October."

She responded immediately: "I'll be waiting. And next time, Thomas, I have plans for you."

A Greater Anglia train thundered past, parallel to the motorway. Inside, the same commuters from this morning, returning after their London day. All of us moving in patterns, occasionally breaking free for moments of genuine connection before resuming our appointed places.

But October wasn't so far away. And this time, I wouldn't let fifteen more years pass before the next chapter unfolded.