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It always ends the same way.
An empty bed, cold sheets where his warmth had been.
An emptier feeling in your chest that you shove aside, bury deep with lies and half-truths and conjectures.
This is what I want. This is what he wants. Nothing more, nothing less.
It always starts the same way too, with a seemingly innocent fast food outing, bowling with friends, a coffee run. Shared looks, lingering gazes, a brush of his hand against your thigh. Before you know it you’re parked at the side of the road, on the outskirts of the city, legs straddling his in the front seat, so deep inside you you’re biting your lip to keep from screaming.
“You like it,” he’ll say, knowing perfectly well that you do, “you like my cock inside you” and you’ll moan loudly in response, as he grasps your hips and ruts up into you. Every snap of his hips sends you reeling, every deep groan from his chest has your arousal dripping down onto his leather seats.
“So good for me, baby,” he’ll coo as you fall apart, “your pussy takes me so well.”
You’ll whimper at his words, cry his name as you come, wanting nothing more than this, but this, him, always.
What you don’t know, is that he drives home, after being with you, cursing himself and his own weakness. He can still taste you on his lips, can still see your smile, can still feel the softness of your skin under his fingertips. He’ll go home, and try to forget, but he’ll still fall asleep with an image of you seared into his mind, a smile on his face.
It always ends with friendly banter, with humor to mask the longing, with averted eyes to deny the truth that’s plain to see. It ends with kisses to swallow words that might be said, kisses that turn heated because the language of sex is easier than the language of love. He wants you to be his, but he doesn’t know how to say it, and so having you in his bed is easier than having you outside of it.
“Is this all for me,” he’ll say, fingers coated in your juices as he pumps them inside of you, “only for me,” he’ll whisper, palm on your stomach to help hold you down as your body convulses from the intensity of the orgasm he gives you. You grab his hand that had been inside you, and you want to kiss it and tell him that this is more than just sex to you, but instead you slip his fingers into your mouth and suck, and he watches you with eyes that want to devour, both your body, and your heart.
He’ll hover over you, press you down into the mattress as he slides his cock inside you, he’ll swallow your moans with his lips, your lips preventing his own words from spilling out. Instead of admissions from the heart, he’ll let his lust take over, pumping his cock into you at a furious pace that might just outrun his longing.
“That’s it, baby,” he’ll say, watching your face contort with pleasure, “that’s a good girl, so good for me, so fucking good…”
And he’ll slip, because you feel so good wrapped around him, so he’ll touch your face as he fucks you, too tender for what this is supposed to be between you. Your eyes will catch his, and for a split second there’s something there that you see, but it’ll be gone just as soon as it appeared, replaced by a white-hot flash as you come, his thumb on your clit sending you to your end. When he comes inside you he thinks there couldn’t be a feeling in the world that exists that could match it, and maybe he fantasizes about a time when you could be all his, just his, but he’ll kiss and suck on your neck instead, because why would you ever want that from him when you’re perfectly fine with the arrangement you have.
It always starts with longing, but a longing that at some point turned from lust to love. A longing that was there from the beginning, when you had met through mutual friends, when you ended up in each other’s beds time and again, but were never brave enough to put a label on what you were doing. You always thought it was what he wanted, and he thought the same of you, and the arrangement worked for some time. But for you it started with a lingering touch, a lingering glance, that you tried not to read too much into but for some reason couldn’t let go of. For him, it started with the way you would caress his neck in those intimate moments, the way you would tilt your head at him and smile from across the table when out with friends. Small moments that shouldn’t mean anything, but kept him awake for more nights than he’d care to admit.
It always ends with the need for something more, expressed in words and actions that scream their intention in muted tones. A heated makeout session at a party where you can do nothing more but fall apart as he marks up your neck and collarbone and chest, whispering ‘mine’ under his breath, and you’re dying to ask him if he means it, if he really wants you to be his and only his. When he has you face down on the bed underneath him, and the tip of his cock hits you so deep you lose all composure and whine for more, your body and heart aching for more of this, more of him.
It ends with you leaving, always when he’s still asleep, shutting down the emotions bubbling to the surface as you hurriedly dress in the dark.
It ends with him leaving, with purposefully slow actions maybe he hopes you’ll wake up and tell him not to leave, not knowing that you’re awake, shutting your eyes tight to keep the tears from falling.
It starts with bravery, with honesty.
It starts with you saying “stay.”
It starts with hands being held shyly in public. It starts with kisses that linger, kisses that don’t lead to sex but to feelings being laid bare. It starts with your friends telling you that they knew you would always end up together.
It starts with a question, as he watches your pussy swallow his cock, your back bowing off the bed. “Mine?” he’ll ask, his hand slipping to the small of your back to pull you closer to him. “Yes,” you’ll respond, breathless, euphoric, content.
“Only yours.”