Last night, I was feeling off—kind of lonely, kind of down. I didn’t want to sit with those feelings, so I texted him. I didn’t even think too hard about it; I just said, "Hey, wanna come over?" I’d done this before, and we both knew what it usually meant, but I didn’t say it outright. Part of me wanted to pretend I just needed company, but deep down, I knew exactly what I wanted.

When he got here, I acted normal—offered him a drink, put on some random show in the background like I cared about it. We made small talk, but I was distracted the whole time. He looked good, and I could feel the heat building, but I didn’t want to make the first move. I wanted him to.

It didn’t take long. He must have noticed the way I kept glancing at him or how I shifted closer every time he spoke. Eventually, he just leaned in and kissed me, hard, like he was reading my mind. I didn’t even try to play coy—I kissed him back, pulling him closer until he got the hint.

Before I knew it, we were in my bedroom, and things got intense fast. It wasn’t gentle or romantic; it was like he was trying to break me—and honestly, I was into it. He didn’t just take the lead; he took control, like he knew exactly how much I needed to let go. His hands were rough, his grip firm, and the way he moved... it drove me absolutely crazy.

We went at it for hours, barely stopping to breathe. At one point, I was sure I couldn’t take anymore, but then he’d grab me again, and I’d let him. It wasn’t just the physical stuff—it was the way he made me feel completely out of my head, like everything else I’d been upset about didn’t exist anymore.

When it was finally over, I collapsed onto the bed, completely spent. He fell asleep almost immediately, but I just lay there for a while, feeling the soreness settle in my body. I tried to stand up this morning, and I swear my legs just said, "Nope." Every step hurt, and it was a reminder of exactly how much he’d pushed me.

But honestly? I’d do it again.