I didn’t want to think about Randy anymore.
Not the soft way he kissed my neck when we were tangled on the couch. Not the
smirk in his voice when he teased me over takeout. Not the way he left without
saying what needed to be said.
So, I texted Matteo and gave him the basics.
Me: Want to help me forget?
Matteo: Just say the word. Also — FYI, recent STI panel: all
negative. Will send it over.
The screenshot came through seconds later. Clean.
Considerate. Disarming in its directness.
Some part of me relaxed. Some part of me felt sick. I couldn’t decide if this
was healing or self-destruction. Maybe it was both.
He arrived in under an hour.
There was no pretense. We kissed at the door — slow at
first, until I yanked him closer, fingers knotted in his shirt. I needed to be
touched without tenderness. Needed to be wanted without meaning.
We didn’t even make it to the bedroom.
He pressed me up against the dining room wall, kissing me like he meant to
leave marks. Our clothes hit the floor in quick, careless bursts. He rolled on
a condom without ceremony, lifted me onto the table, and slid inside me in one
deep thrust that punched the air from my lungs.
I gasped, legs locking around his waist.
He fucked me like he didn’t owe me anything — fast, full, unrelenting — and I
gave it right back, moaning into his neck, nails digging into his shoulder
blades to anchor myself to something real.
The windows were open. I hadn’t noticed.
What I didn’t know — not then — was that Randy had pulled up
outside. That he’d heard the rhythm of skin on skin, the sharp sound of my
voice as I called out Matteo’s name.
He didn’t ring the bell. Later, I’d find out he left without
a word.
But I didn’t care. Not then.
Matteo kept moving inside me, breath ragged, fingers bruising my hips. The
table shook beneath us. I came with my head thrown back and my mouth wide open
— not quiet, not shy. As if I wanted someone to hear.
That night, we didn’t stop. He took me on the living room
floor. Bent me over the stairs. Finally, he dragged me into bed and collapsed
beside me like we’d been doing this for years. Which, in a way, we had.
Day Two
We woke tangled and sore. I didn’t pretend to feel rested.
My thighs ached, my lips were raw, and I welcomed every inch of it.
He made coffee. I changed the sheets. There were no
apologies — just an understanding we didn’t bother to say out loud.
That afternoon, we ended up in the shower. He pressed me
against the slick tile and took me from behind, slow and hungry, one hand
gripping my hip while the other spread across my stomach like a claim.
He kissed my spine. Bit my shoulder. Whispered filth in my ear that made my
knees buckle.
Still a condom. Still careful. Still wild enough to make me
feel anything but numb.
That night, he kissed every inch of me like a prayer we
hadn’t spoken. I let him — even when my voice cracked and I told him not to say
a word.
He didn’t.
He just stayed.
Day Three
By morning, the air had changed.
I knew it was our last day.
He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.
He made me eggs. I watched him move around the kitchen like
he belonged there. It almost hurt.
We had sex again — twice. Once in the laundry room, bodies
flushed, frantic, the spin cycle thudding behind us. And then again in bed,
softer but no less intense, his mouth between my legs before I pulled him up to
finish inside me.
My fingers twisted in his hair, holding him there, like I
didn’t want to let go.
And I didn’t.
But I did.
When he left, he kissed my forehead and murmured,
“You’re still in there, babe. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Then he was gone.
I showered. Washed the towels. Started laundry. Ate leftover
toast standing over the sink.
Then I stared at my phone until the screen went dark.
I didn’t want silence.
Me: If I asked you to do something impulsive and
probably unhealthy, would you?
Vince: 100% yes. Also just got tested — clean and clear. Screenshot
incoming.
He sent it. I didn’t flinch.
Me: Door’s unlocked.
Vince Arrives
He knocked anyway. Always a gentleman but in the wrong ways.
He looked me over like he wasn’t sure what he was walking
into. I didn’t explain. I grabbed him by the collar and kissed him hard enough
to hurt.
His hands gripped my ass, pulling me against his
already-hard dick. By the time we made it to the couch, his pants were
half-off. He sheathed himself in a condom, then shoved inside me in one rough
stroke that made my head fall back.
Vin didn’t do soft. He did dirty. He fucked me like he was
trying to erase someone else’s name from my mouth.
And I let him.
He flipped me over, grabbed my hair, held me down.
Asked if I missed him. If I wanted more.
I said yes to everything even though we both knew I didn’t
mean it.
And through the cracked living room window — again — Randy
heard it all.
He didn’t knock this time either. He just left.
Four Days with Vin
We didn’t stop.
It was a fever dream of limbs, sweat, and bruised lips. Kitchen counters.
Hallway walls. The guest room floor. Always protected. Always intense.
It wasn’t tender. It was raw and physical and broken and
perfect.
In the in-betweens, we watched dumb shows. Mocked
commercials. Drank wine.
He asked if I was okay once — just once — and when I didn’t answer, he pulled
me into his chest and let me fall asleep there.
On the third day, he made dinner.
On the fourth, he kissed my temple, smirked like he knew exactly what this was,
and left without looking back.
He wasn’t the one I was running from.
Or to.
And he knew it.
An hour later, Randy’s name lit up my phone.
Randy:
I stopped by the other day. Thought I’d apologize in person. Swung by again
today. You were otherwise occupied. Both days. Guess I’ll try again some other
time.
I stared at it for a full minute. Then replied.
Me:
Don’t come by unless you’re invited. You’re not allowed on my property
otherwise.
His reply came fast.
Randy:
I understand.
But then another message.
Randy:
Emma and Max miss you.
I exhaled through my nose. Low blow.
Me:
Don’t try to guilt me. I didn’t do anything wrong.
His typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Came back.
Randy:
You’re right. But I heard you… and it wasn’t the same guy.
I didn’t flinch.
Me:
I can do what — and who — I want. When I want.
A pause. Then a reaction.
👍
That was the end of it.
For now.
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