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“Always, mi diavolessa,” he says, in a voice that’s equal parts affection and dare. I adore you. And come and get me, baby.

It’s not the boyfriend I left four years ago. He wouldn’t let me fuck my way out of my feelings like this.

It’s too loaded.

He knows something.

But, right now, I don’t care. I need this to center me.

He’s the only man who can truly keep up with me.

The only man who’s ever stirred me this much.

Maybe that’s what he knows. Maybe, deep down, he’s sure I never got over him. And that’s why he’s so confident.

Maybe—

Fuck, I don’t care as long as I have him.

“Take off your shirt,” I say as I run my fingers over his skin.

“Help me,” he replies.

So I do.

I undo the buttons, one at a time.

He looks up at me as I slide it off his shoulders.

I pull my shirt over my head and I toss it aside. Then I melt into his lap. Soak in the feeling of his body against mine. My skin against his.

I don’t ask for more. I stay here, in his arms, until I need something stronger.

Then I kiss him.

He kisses back.

Soft, slow.

Tender.

Patient.

We slip into that game again. The gentle version. Where every touch is an invitation to connect. An act of love.

A surrender to the feelings between us.

Slowly, we make our way to the comfy queen bed in the simple bedroom.

I reach for the buckle of his belt. And I freeze.

The thought overwhelms me:

You might never see him come again.

I try to push it aside. I kiss him harder. I try to focus on the sheer sensory pleasure of his lips.

The taste of mint.