The heat between us

Sunday afternoon, a few hours after Randy handed me that letter, Vince showed up at my house with a bag of groceries and his usual determination. He kissed me like he needed to ground himself, then headed into the kitchen and began unloading everything—fresh herbs, pasta, vegetables, garlic, cheese—spreading the ingredients out like he already knew the recipe by heart.

He noticed the used fireplace out of the corner of his eye. The faint scent of smoke still clung to the air, and the ash in the grate hadn’t fully cooled. He stared at it for just a beat too long—expression unreadable—but didn’t ask, didn’t comment. Just turned his attention back to the olive oil he was drizzling into a pan.

I didn’t tell Vince about Randy’s letter. Vince still struggles with jealousy, even now. He’s still in therapy every week, but it’s a slow unraveling. He wants to trust me—he just doesn’t trust other men in general—but there are moments that still catch in his chest and lock his jaw. I’d decided not to bring up the letter. It felt like protecting Vince.

As he chopped the vegetables, he glanced at me and said, “You okay? You seem a little distant today.”

I shrugged, “Just a lot on my mind. You know how it is.”

He nodded, slicing garlic with practiced ease. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m here.”

I smiled softly. “I know. Thanks.”

We moved easily through dinner prep and cooking. He tossed the pasta, stirred the sauce, and I set the table. Our hands brushed occasionally, legs tangled under the wood. At one point, he grinned, “I still can’t believe you put up with my cooking.”

I laughed. “It’s better than you give yourself credit for.”

We ate quietly, savoring the meal. Between bites, Vince said, “Remember when we first started dating? I hated your idea of a romantic dinner—microwave pizza and a movie.”

I smiled, eyes meeting his. “Yeah, I’ve stepped up my game.”

He reached across the table, brushing my hand with his. “I only cook for you.”

Afterward, we cleaned up in near silence, not out of tension but comfort. Familiarity. Once everything was put away, Vince grabbed another bottle of wine and our glasses, and we stepped outside to the back deck.

The air was cooling. He poured more wine for both of us, then settled close. We talked, drank, and laughed a little. Our voices lowered with the sun.

“Tell me something,” he said, his knee brushing mine. “Why don’t you ever say you love me?”

I hesitated, then shook my head. “The last time I told someone I loved them… they cheated on me. I’m scared it’ll jinx us. Even though you’ve already cheated.”

He looked away for a moment, jaw clenched. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“But for some reason, I am still with you,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I want to be the last person you say it to. Whenever you’re ready.”

His hand slid to my thigh and stayed there. Without a word, he helped me up and moved behind me, setting our glasses down on the railing. I felt his fingers lift my skirt slowly, deliberately. His leg parted my legs, guiding me to lean over the railing.

And then his dick was inside me—deep, sudden, thick—and I gasped out loud as my hands gripped the wood, knuckles pale.

He started moving, each thrust more powerful than the last. His hips smacked against me, the rhythm relentless, his breathing ragged against my shoulder. He grabbed my nipples from behind, tugging and pinching, making me cry out again.

“Harder,” I begged, twisting under him.

He groaned and drove into me faster, deeper, slamming against my body as if he meant to break the distance between us. The sound of us echoed out into the quiet evening, skin against skin, my moans cut open by every thrust.

When he shot several loads in me, he held me hard to him, buried fully, releasing himself inside me with a series of low, strangled groans. I felt every pulse, every wave as he emptied himself. My legs were shaking. When he pulled out, I felt him drip down my thighs, hot and thick.

He turned me around, kissed me softly, then pulled me inside with him, never breaking contact. We didn’t make it far before our clothes hit the floor again.

He laid me on the bed and came over me, kissing me like he was still starved. He pushed into me again and this time moved with a slower, deeper intensity—each stroke full, purposeful. His body was slick with sweat, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

I gripped his back, wrapped my legs around him and moaned into his neck. The second time built slower, hotter, messier. He whispered my name, over and over, between kisses and thrusts, until we both lost the rhythm and gave in.

When he came again, he gasped something that sounded like a prayer. He stayed buried deep, twitching inside me, fully draining himself. He pulled me against his chest before he even slipped out, holding me tight, his breath against my hair, his heart pounding beneath my palm.

He didn’t let go. Not even as the silence grew thick.

We lay together, limbs tangled—Vince still in me, breath slowing. Our voices dropped to a whisper as we spoke about nothing and everything all at once—the week ahead, the silence of the night around us, the way my body still trembled under his. We kissed between phrases, fingertips tracing familiar paths.

Eventually, the talking faded, and sleep found us still locked together. Vince’s arms never let go.

In the early morning, Vince rolled me onto my back, spread my legs and mounted me. I groaned in pleasure and pain. My pussy was swollen. As he was slamming his dick in and out of me, he was grunting my name like it would save his life. He pumped me full of his cum until he was drained. I fell asleep with his dick still in me, throbbing, pulsating and still pouring his cum in me.

Three hours before work, I reached out to my staff that I would be taking a personal day. Vince and I spent the rest of the day, using every possible surface in my house to screw. He fucked me against the front screen door – it was clear and people passing by could see what we were doing, he had me against the wall while he was thrusting in and out of me, the kitchen and bathroom counters, the deck, the kitchen and dining room tables, my bedroom, the spare room, the shower, the garage and we even went on the deck.

We barely had any breaks throughout the day but when it was time for dinner, we ordered out. We were in the middle of fucking against my bedroom door when the food was delivered…Vince came hard in me twice before we downstairs.

By the time we went to bed, my pussy was swollen and was tighter than usual. Vince was exhausted. We fucked three more times before falling asleep…we were both screaming in pleasure. We were satiated. We finally fell asleep.