Long weekend with Vince

Early that morning, while I was still lying in my own bed, sore and dizzy from sleep, Vince called.

"Come back," he said, voice low and soft. "Spend the rest of the week with me. I’ll take care of you."

My stomach fluttered.

"I have work—"

"Call out - them you’re sick. You are — I ruined you."

I laughed, breathless, already pulling up my work app. "You’re not wrong."

I called out of work for the rest of the week. And I went to his place to spend days and nights tangled up in sheets, warmth, and each other.

That week was seven days of nothing but him.

We didn’t leave the bedroom except to shower, rest, and go out for dinner. And even then, the restaurants were upscale and romantic—dim candlelight flickering across white linens, soft jazz playing in the background, the clink of glasses and silverware fading behind thick velvet curtains. Each place felt intimate, like the world had shrunk down to just the two of us. The servers were attentive, the food exquisite—oysters, seared duck, filet mignon, perfect wine pairings.

He opened every door, pulled out every chair, ordered dessert to share even when we were full. Every night, he took me somewhere new. And every night, I wore something that barely counted as a dress—so low-cut my breasts threatened to spill with each breath, so short that even walking turned heads because my “lady bits” were barely covered. The fabric clung to me, teased at every curve. Men stared. Vince stared harder.

"Every man in this room wants you," he murmured one night, leaning in close, his breath warm against my ear before kissing me. "But they’ll never know how you taste. That’s all mine."

His hands were always on me. At the restaurant, in the backseat of the car we’d hired—every moment alone was charged. But it was back at his place where the sparks turned into fire.

He pulled me close the moment we stepped inside. We kissed like we’d been starved for each other. We fucked against the wall, rough and hungry. On the kitchen counter, laughing between gasps. On the couch, tangled together. In the hallway. In the shower. And always, always, in his bed.

He tangled his fingers in my hair, held my gaze as he thrust into me with intensity. He kissed me like he needed me. He traced every inch of my skin, memorizing the way I moaned, the way I called out his name.

He worshipped my body. His mouth on my breasts sent shivers through me, his tongue teasing until I arched into him. He kissed down my stomach, took his time between my thighs. "So sweet," he murmured, voice rough with reverence. "I’ll never get enough."

He kissed down my neck, across my ribs, up my thighs, every touch a promise of more. Praise and need tangled in his breath: "You take me so well," "You’re perfect," "Let me hear you."

We moved together in the mornings, slow and sleepy. We found each other again after breakfast, needy and raw. We came back to each other throughout the afternoon and well past midnight.

There were no rules. No holding back. Just wave after wave of heat. We fucked everywhere and often. He came inside me every time. No condoms. Still on antibiotics for my bronchitis, I took a morning-after pill each day without hesitation.

“You’re wrecking me,” I whispered one night, legs trembling, voice hoarse.

He kissed the corner of my mouth. “You love it.”

And I did. I missed this…I missed him.

By the end of the week, my body was tender in the best ways. My thighs carried the memory of his grip. My breasts ached with the echo of his mouth. My voice was rough from moaning his name.

I lost count of how many times we fucked over the week that I was there. The days blurred into each other, a dream of sensation and heat. And every night, he wrapped around me like I was something he never wanted to lose; he always held me tight against his chest.

It wasn’t love on my side because all I felt was pleasure and lust. But on his side? He still loved me.

And I gave in, again and again, until I forgot what it felt like to not be his.

On the last day—the one we’d agreed would be the end—I woke early. Around 3:30/3:45 in the morning. His bedroom was dim and quiet, the city just beginning to stir outside.

I packed my things slowly, carefully, without making a sound. I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t send a text. But I did leave his spare house key—the one he kept trying to give me—on the nightstand by his bed.

Then I slipped out the door and went home.