Meeting George

George looked down at his watch. She was already fifteen minutes late. If this were any other girl, he would have already left this place. But she wasn't just anyone. He compared every other chick to her. Even when he tried to forget that she even existed – which was much easier said than done. His sister once called her "the one" for him. He never liked that concept; he believed it to be a stupid Hollywood fantasy. There is no "the one," George continuously told himself, ignoring his feelings for Emma. She never stayed, so you could hardly call her "the one," he argued. George would have done anything for her. He wanted her to do anything for him. In the end, perhaps that's what broke the straw.

A cute blonde girl in a short, pink dress walked by. Nice pair of tits, he thought, and nice long legs, too. He felt a little tickle in his stomach. Their gazes met. A smile from her, a confident nod from him. He wanted to get up, talk to her, do his move. It had always worked so well in the past. They would have sex just the way he liked it. "That was the beauty about being the lead singer of a rock bad: women just want you to fuck them," George loved to say back in those days.

"Hey, George," a sweet voice said.

He looked up and saw Emma. His heart leaped. She was wearing the infamous black top. It was the one, he had bought her after ripping another skin-tight top apart the night she came back from university in America and didn't get out of bed until two days later. He glanced at her breasts, daydreaming of the moments he saw them naked, suckling on those thick little nipples which drove little Emma always close to orgasm.

Emma coughed and he looked up into her eyes again. "I'm sorry I'm late. I ran into – "

"It's okay, nipps," George claimed and displayed his boyish grin which always worked on her before.

Emma's head swirled around. "Not in public!" she muttered, then leaned over the table, "And we're not dating anymore. Don't call me that again, okay?!"

She sounded angrier than usual, George thought, sighed and took a sip of his espresso.

In his head, he had a quick flashback to their last fuck. It was a weekend away in Sandbanks. Friday evening was great. Saturday was amazing. Sunday resembled hell. He remembered waking up in an empty hotel bed. Their clothes and sex toys were still lying around everywhere. It had been a wild night on Saturday, possibly the wildest night they had ever shared together. By his count, Emma experienced at least four massive orgasms and he denied her quite a few more. Her body had completely belonged to him that night. The next morning, Emma was gone. He was all alone. He texted her. No response. He called her. She didn't pick up.

Nearly two hours past with no sign from her. He was close to calling the police when Emma finally walked back into their room. He yelled at her. She yelled back. It was their biggest fight yet, turning nasty very quickly. "You belong to me. Your body will always belong to me," George shouted towards the end of his outburst. Emma's palm smacked across his face. His ears were buzzing. A wave of pain rolled over his body. This wasn't good pain, the one even he enjoyed when Emma was using it during their kink play against him. This one hurt a lot. His head was thumping as he slowly turned his face back towards the person, the world still likes to call Hermione Granger. Heartbreak and disgust glared back at him. He noticed her eyes welled up before tears slowly rolled down her face. It was over. Emma raced past him, packing her stuff into her small black suitcase and rushed out of the room.

It was the last time they talked or saw each other until last night.

"How are you?" Emma asked after ordering the usual Americano.

"Good, good," George lied. "How are you?"

"Thanks for asking. I'm good," she replied in a soft tone.

They shot themselves a bemused look. They both knew each other long enough, George thought, to know that they've just lied to each other. He sighed.

"I saw your movie…"

She curved her lips again. He had seen all of them. In fact, he had accompanied her to some of the premieres. "I listened to your new songs," she revealed to him.

"They suck," he declared and finished his coffee. His career had taken a bit of a hit a few months ago after someone posted some nasty rumours about him online. The band threw him out and he was trying to start a solo career. It's difficult, he had told his former manager, when everyone thinks you're a prick.

"I like the one about throwing a wild party in Paris and trashing the whole place." Her piercing eyes stared at him. He had written that song himself. It was a reference to Emma's belated 21st birthday party. George, Emma, Sophie, and Andrew; they all went to Paris over Bastille Day and the final night in the City of Light was crazy. They partied until the early morning hours. First they hit the dance floors of some clubs, then partied in their presidential suite with loud music and one bottle of expensive French champagne after another. "Remember when Soph and Andy wanted to reenact the scene from Dirty Dancing? Completely wasted… at three in the morning…" She chuckled.

George's heart beat a little faster at the memory of it. It was there, in Paris, that Emma had told him about her wish to "play" with him on a more regular basis. He began to recount his own version of events in Paris, which Emma then mostly disagreed with.

"No, no," she said and giggled. "It wasn't like that at all, George." The tilt of her laughter remained music to his ears.

They dived into a seemingly perfect past, forgetting, if only briefly, their current troubles. They have that kind of a connection; they always had.

"George," a man said, walking up to their round wooden table in the corner. "The bar upstairs is ready for you."

"Bar?" Emma said, surprised. "A bit early, don't you think?"

"More private," George argued. He looked out the window at a bloke with a backpack, taking pictures of them. "Thank you, Marc. You're the best. Have you already met Emma?" He pointed at her with his open hand and continued, addressing his friend, "This is Marc. He's the owner."

"I have… not," Emma said, dragging the final word out while looking at the tall muscular guy. "I'm Emma."

"I know," he said in his deep voice. "Do you like your coffee? Can I get you anything else?"

"Yes, it's perfect and I'm fine, thank you. I like your place."

"Thanks," Marc replied and undressed her mentally.

"Let's go upstairs, ni – Emma."

They continued their walk down memory lane upstairs. George wanted to keep this going for hours, feeling safe and secure for the first time in a long while. Emma, too, loved spending time with George again. She had missed this, just hanging out with him. Yes, perhaps he had said hurtful things to her, but she couldn't stay mad at him forever. His green eyes could make everything go disappear. They talked and talked, completely losing track of time. Another round of coffee. Some soft drinks after that.It wasn't until Emma returned from the toilet that George addressed the elephant in the room.

"What can I do for you, E?"

She felt her pulse rise immediately. "Right, right," she uttered under her breath, looking down at her hands. She inspected her fingernails for a moment. "When did you know?" she asked so softly George could barely hear it.

"When did I know what?"

"How to…" Emma trailed off, looking around the room and then leaning forward, whispering, "do me? You know, so I orgasm too. I need some help here -"