Misc. Erotica The Mechanic's Trap- By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

But then… the door creaked open.

And he walked in.
No knocking. No warning. Just him—Muthu. Standing there in his usual shirt and jeans, but something in his eyes was different. Quieter. Final.
My heart stuttered. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to.
“I came to say goodbye,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “For real this time.”
I turned off the stove without looking at him.
“Good,” I whispered. “That’s good.”
He stepped closer.
I could feel him behind me even before I heard him breathe. That familiar warmth. That scent of sun and grease and everything I was trying so hard to erase.
“I didn’t come to make it harder,” he said.
But he already had.
And then... he reached out and pulled me into an embrace.
Not rough. Not lustful. Just… desperate. Honest.
I froze at first, my cheek against his chest, my hands caught between us. But the moment I felt his arms tighten, something inside me shattered. And I held him. Tight. Fierce. Like we were trying to hold back time itself.
His hand moved gently up my back, cradling my head as I finally let my face rest against his neck. He smelled the same. He felt the same. And yet, everything was different.
“Don’t,” I murmured, my voice cracking. “Please don’t make me remember.”
“But we never forgot,” he said softly. “Even when we tried.”
We didn’t kiss.
We didn’t move.
We just stood there—wrapped in each other, breathing in what little we had left. My nighty clung to me, thin and damp between us. My bra pressed into his chest. His heartbeat thundered through me like a storm that hadn’t passed.
I wanted to push him away.
I wanted to stay in his arms forever.
And I did neither.
I just held on.
To the goodbye.
To the ache.
To the memory of being loved without words.
“A Kiss That Spoke for Me”
His arms were still around me.
The kitchen had fallen silent, but inside me, everything was trembling—like a pot on the verge of boiling over. My chest rose and fell against his. The silk of my nighty clung between us, thin as breath. I could feel his heartbeat where our bodies touched, and it made mine echo louder.
He tilted his face toward mine.
His eyes asked a question.
But his lips didn’t wait for my answer.
They found mine kissing my lips—slowly, deliberately, like he was still asking for permission with every movement. His mouth was warm, familiar, and unbearably soft. There was nothing rushed about it. He kissed me like he was memorising the shape of my lips one last time.
And I… I kissed him back.
My hands moved on their own—rising to hold his face, trembling as my thumbs brushed his stubbled jaw. I leaned into him, my lips parting slightly, answering a question I had buried deep inside my chest for weeks.
Yes.
Yes, I still want you.
Yes, my body remembers.
The kiss deepened—an ache blooming beneath the warmth. I felt his hand slide to the small of my back, pulling me closer, anchoring me to him. My black bra pressed harder against him through the soft white fabric. My thighs brushed his jeans. I could feel the way his breath quickened—just like mine.
He whispered against my lips, between kisses, “Sudha… tell me not to…”
I couldn’t.
I didn’t want to.
So instead, I kissed him harder. Letting my mouth speak where my voice couldn’t. Letting the way my lips trembled against his say all the things I never said out loud:
“I missed this. I missed you. I don’t know how to forget you.”
When we finally pulled away, we didn’t speak.
Our foreheads touched, breaths mingling, lips still tingling.
“I should go,” he said, softly, almost as if he didn’t believe it himself.
I nodded. But I didn’t let go of his shirt.
And neither did he let go of me.
“Where I Let Him In Again”
His lips returned to mine—this time with less hesitation, more ache.
The kiss wasn’t asking anymore. It was remembering. Reclaiming.
He began enjoying himself kissing my lips;
His hands, once tentative, now found their way to the curve of my waist, slipping lower with a kind of quiet desperation, until they held me in a way only he ever had—with reverence and hunger folded into the same grip.
As Muthu began grabbing my Ass Cheeks over my Nighty and began kissing my lips, his touch made me forget where I was standing. I leaned into him, fully—my body no longer just a body, but a language. And with every press of my lips to his, I spoke without speaking:
"I missed how you made me feel like a woman made of fire."
I felt his breath hitch when I kissed him deeper, slower, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt. My body responded before my mind had a chance to object. My skin, even through the light fabric of my white nighty, was burning beneath his palms.
The air between us thickened. There was no clock anymore. No kitchen. No world outside the four walls of that moment. Only us.
“Muthu…” I whispered against his mouth. My voice came out cracked, soft. “Don’t say anything now…”
He didn’t.
Instead, he rested his forehead against mine for a brief second, his hands still holding me like I was something breakable and beloved.
Our mouths met again—fierce now, tender still. And in that kiss, I gave him everything I couldn’t keep: my ache, my fear, my unspoken yes.
Yes, I still need you.
Yes, I remember every time.
Yes, even now, when we shouldn’t.