Sara, After the Wanting

The first time I saw Sara, she was laughing under the shade of a jack tree near the university library, her dark curls catching the golden afternoon light. She was arguing with a friend about some obscure point in Sinhala literature, her hands moving with the kind of passion that made my pulse quicken.

I’d been at the university for months, buried in engineering textbooks, but something about the way her lips curled when she smirked—like she knew a secret—made me forget every equation I’d ever memorized.

The first time I saw Sara, she was laughing under the shade of a jak tree near the university library, her dark curls catching the golden afternoon light.

She was arguing with a friend about some obscure point in Sinhala literature, her hands moving with the kind of passion that made my pulse quicken. I’d been at the university for months, buried in engineering textbooks, but something about the way her lips curled when she smirked—like she knew a secret—made me forget every equation I’d ever memorized.

The monsoon rains had just started when I finally worked up the nerve. She was sitting alone at the café near the arts faculty, stirring a cup of black tea, her textbook open but ignored. I slid into the seat across from her, heart hammering.

“You’re in the Sinhala literature program, right? ” I asked, trying to sound casual."

She glanced up, her dark eyes sharp, assessing. “And you’re the engineering guy who’s been staring at me for a week.”

Fuck. Busted.

I grinned, rubbing the back of my neck. “Guilty. But in my defense, you’re hard to miss.”

She didn’t smile. Just took a slow sip of her tea, watching me over the rim of the cup. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Puthaya."

Puthaya. Son. The way she said it—like she was already three steps ahead of me—made my cock twitch. I leaned in. “What will get me somewhere?”

That got me a smirk. A real one. “You’d have to be more interesting than the last five boys who tried this.”

Challenge accepted.

We talked for hours that day—about books, about the stupid politics of the university, about how the city had changed since we were kids. She was sharp, sarcastic, and every time she laughed, I wanted to kiss her. But I didn’t. Not yet.

The second time we met, she was the one who sought me out. Found me in the library, tugged my earbud out, and said, “You never asked for my number.”

I didn’t hesitate. Took her phone, typed in my digits, and sent myself a text. “Now you have mine too.”

Her fingers brushed against mine as she took her phone back. “Bold. I like that.”

That night, my phone buzzed with a message from her: “If you’re free tomorrow, there’s a poetry reading at the Barefoot Gallery. Don’t be late.”

I wasn’t.

The poetry reading was pretentious as hell, but I didn’t care. Sara sat beside me, her thigh pressed against mine, her perfume—something warm, like cinnamon and jasmine—filling my senses. Every time the poet paused, she’d lean in and whisper some biting commentary in my ear, her breath hot against my skin.

“He thinks he’s profound, but he’s just repeating what his professor said last semester.”

“That metaphor was so bad I’m surprised the walls didn’t crumble.”

I was hard the whole time.

When the event ended, we wandered out into the garden, the air thick with the scent of frangipani. She turned to me, her back against a stone pillar, and tilted her head. “You’re quiet.”

“Just enjoying the view,” I murmured, letting my gaze drag down her body—her fitted blouse, the way her skirt hugged her hips.

She didn’t look away. Just licked her lips. “You’ve been looking at me like that for weeks. What are you waiting for?”

I didn’t answer with words.

I closed the distance between us, my hand cupping her jaw, my thumb brushing over her bottom lip. She exhaled sharply, her lashes fluttering, but she didn’t pull away. So I kissed her.

And fuck, she kissed back.

Her lips were soft, but her tongue was bold, sliding against mine, teasing, demanding. I groaned, pressing her against the pillar, my hands gripping her waist. She moaned into my mouth, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” she gasped between kisses, “staring at me like you want to devour me.”

“I do,” I growled, my hands sliding under her blouse, palming her breasts over her lace bra. She arched into my touch, a whimper escaping her throat.

I pushed her against the wall, my lips trailing down her neck, my teeth grazing her collarbone. She tasted like salt and something sweet, like mangoes. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” I muttered, my fingers working the buttons of her blouse.

She didn’t let me undress her slowly. She ripped the blouse open herself, buttons scattering, her bra following seconds later. “Less talking,” she ordered, her nails digging into my shoulders.

I dropped to my knees.

“Amal,” she breathed against my lips, “if you don’t take me somewhere private right now, I’m going to drag you into the bushes.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

My apartment was a mess—textbooks everywhere, half-empty coffee cups—but Sara didn’t seem to care. The second the door closed, she was on me, her mouth crashing into mine, her hands yanking at my shirt.

Her skin was warm under my lips, her nipples already hard, begging for attention. I took one between my teeth, flicking my tongue over the tight bud, and she cried out, her head falling back against the wall. “Yes—just like that—”

I lavished attention on her breasts, sucking, nibbling, while my hands slid down to her skirt, bunching the fabric up around her hips. Her panties were soaked. I groaned, pressing my face against the damp lace, inhaling her scent—musky, intoxicating.

“Amal—” she panted, her fingers tangling in my hair, “please—”

I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties and yanked them down. The second they hit the floor, I buried my face between her thighs.

She tasted even better than she smelled.

I licked her slowly at first, savoring the way her hips jerked, the way her breath hitched. “Oh—fuck—” Her fingers tightened in my hair, guiding me, urging me on.

obliged.

My tongue swirled around her clit, teasing, before I sucked it between my lips. She cried out, her thighs trembling. “Yes—right there—don’t stop—”

I didn’t. I feasted on her, my tongue delving inside her, fucking her with slow, deep strokes while my thumb circled her clit. She was so wet, so responsive, her moans filling the room, her body writhing against my mouth.

“I’m close—I’m so close—”

I doubled down, my lips sealing around her clit, sucking hard, and she came with a broken cry, her thighs clamping around my head, her pussy pulsing against my tongue.

I didn’t stop until she was boneless, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Only then did I stand, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, my cock straining against my jeans.

She looked at me, her eyes dark with hunger, and reached for my belt. “My turn.”

She undid my jeans with practiced ease, pushing them down along with my boxers. My cock sprang free, thick and aching, the tip already glistening.

“Mmm,” she purred, wrapping her fingers around my shaft, “you’re even bigger than I imagined.”

I groaned as she stroked me, her thumb swiping over the pre-cum beading at my slit. “Sara—fuck—”

She dropped to her knees, her tongue darting out to lick the underside of my cock. “You taste good,” she murmured before taking the head into her mouth.

I hissed, my hands flying to her hair. “Shit—”

She didn’t tease. She took me deep, her lips sealing around my shaft, her tongue swirling as she hollowed her cheeks. The sight of her on her knees, her plump lips stretched around my cock, was enough to make my vision blur.

“Fuck, your mouth—” I groaned, my hips twitching.

She pulled back, her hand still working my base, her eyes locked on mine. “You like that?” she whispered, before taking me deep again, her throat opening around my tip.

“Yes—fuck yes—” My fingers tightened in her hair, guiding her, but she didn’t need it. She took control, bobbing her head, her free hand cupping my balls, rolling them gently.

I was close. Too close.

“Sara—I’m gonna—”

She didn’t pull away. She took me deeper, her nose pressing against my skin, her throat fluttering around my cock.

And then I came.

A guttural groan tore from my throat as I spilled down her throat, my hips jerking, my release pulsing in hot waves. She swallowed every drop, her lips sealed around me, her tongue cleaning me off as I shuddered.

When she finally pulled back, licking her lips, I was wrecked.

“Fuck,” I breathed, hauling her to her feet, “you’re incredible.”

She smirked, pressing a kiss to my jaw. “I know.”

We didn’t make it to the bed that first time. Or the second.

The wall was fine. So was the couch. And the shower.

But later—much later—when we finally collapsed onto my mattress, limbs tangled, skin slick with sweat, she turned to me, her dark eyes soft in the dim light.

“Stay with me,” she murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest.

I kissed her forehead. “Always.”

And for the first time in my life, I meant it.