Something Like Forever

The days that followed were a blur of skin, sweat, laughter, and tangled sheets. I didn’t know it was possible to crave someone this much—or to be craved so fully in return. Ethan and I barely made it out of bed that first weekend. Every glance between us felt electric, like we were speaking in a language only our bodies could understand.

He was insatiable. Wild. Sometimes he fucked me fast and rough, pinning my hands above my head and whispering filthy things in my ear while I came apart around him. Other times, it was slow and teasing—his mouth exploring every inch of me with unhurried reverence until I was gasping and shaking, begging for him to fill me with his cum.

He learned my body like he was studying for a final he had no intention of failing.

And I let him.

I let him wreck me.

Over and over again.

But it wasn’t just the sex—though the sex was incredible. It was the way he held me afterward, the way he kissed my shoulder in the morning, how he’d text me during the day just to say he couldn’t stop thinking about how I tasted on his tongue or how much he missed being in my presence. It was the way he looked at me, like he already saw forever.

He started taking me out. Not just late-night quick bites after a long shift—real dates. A night at a rooftop bar, my dress hiked up around my waist later in the car. A weekend brunch where he fed me bites of waffle, then dragged me back home and had me on the counter before the coffee even finished brewing. He'd book reservations at wine bars or whisper plans for future trips in my ear while his hand slid between my thighs under the table during our dates.

We went dancing one night. I wore a black dress I knew he liked. The moment we got home, he spun me against the door and lifted me, still in heels, still mostly dressed, taking me with an urgency that made my head spin.

That night, he didn’t even bother undressing. He just pulled my panties to the side, slid his hard dickdeep inside me, and kissed me like he needed to steal the breath from my lungs to survive.

Our rhythm, our heat, our chemistry—it didn’t fade.

Not after a week.

Not after a month.

If anything, it got hotter.

More intense.

He’d sometimes wake me up in the middle of the night, sliding under the covers and between my thighs, whispering how much he needed me. I never said no. Not once. I always opened for him, always let him take what he needed—because it was what I needed, too.

We’d fall asleep in each other’s arms, sweat drying on our skin, hearts beating in sync.

I could feel something changing between us. Quietly at first. Then louder.

He started introducing me more intentionally—to friends, colleagues, even his cousin. He’d bring me little things: flowers, coffee, a piece of jewelry that wasn’t flashy but delicate and beautiful, like he saw something soft in me he wanted to protect.

One night, while we sat on the couch eating takeout, he pressed his hand to my thigh and said, “I want you around for all of it. Not just the good nights. The shitty ones, too. I want every piece.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I kissed him instead.

Weeks became months.

And I started leaving things at his place on purpose. A toothbrush. An extra pair of panties. Then one day, he handed me a key without a word—just tucked it into my palm and kissed my cheek.

Our lives slowly entwined. He knew how I liked my coffee. I knew how he liked to fall asleep: one hand on my hip, face buried in my neck. He started using “we” without thinking.

The sex remained wild. Sometimes days would pass and I’d still be sore, aching in the best way. He loved pushing my limits—pulling me onto his lap and taking me while the front door was still barely closed. Or bending me over the arm of the couch after making dinner, still in his apron.

But it wasn’t just about getting off.

It was about connection.

Need.

Possession.

Love.

And I was falling.

Hard.

**

It was a rainy Friday when he asked again.

We’d just come back from dinner—some little Italian place he knew I liked. I had on one of his shirts and nothing else, curled up against him on the couch. He’d just finished tracing lazy circles on the inside of my thigh, his fingers dangerously close to coaxing another orgasm from me when he went still.

“I meant it when I asked you before,” he said, voice low and serious.

My breath caught.

He sat up a little, cupped my face, and kissed me—soft, slow, reverent.

Then whispered, “Marry me.”

I blinked at him.

“I don’t need an answer tonight,” he added quickly, his thumb brushing over my lips. “But I need you to know I’m not playing. You’re it for me.”

Something swelled in my chest—heat, emotion, maybe fear. Maybe something bigger.

I didn’t answer right away.

But I didn’t run either.

Instead, I climbed into his lap, straddled him, and kissed him until he moaned into my mouth.

And then I rode him slow—every inch a promise I hadn’t quite spoken yet, but that he felt in every thrust, every gasp, every time I whispered his name like a vow.

I still wasn’t sure I was ready to say yes.

But I was starting to believe that maybe, someday soon…

I could be.