Ever since we met at 18, there was always an undeniable spark between us. We were flirty, but never really took it too far. I’ve always been physically affectionate—barely dressed, always finding reasons to touch you, whether it was a hug, sitting on your lap, or holding your hand. It wasn’t unusual for me; I was like that with everyone.
Sometimes, when we were a bit tipsy, we’d kiss, but we’d never mention it afterward. Whether you had a girlfriend or I had a boyfriend, something always stood in the way. Plus, your family never really liked me, thinking I was a bad influence.
Then one night, everything changed. We were drinking, and our usual make-out session escalated. Before we knew it, you were inside me, raw and intense, with no holding back. It was the best either of us had ever had, and pulling out wasn’t even considered.
From then on, it became our little secret. We’d sneak away at parties, turn movie nights into all-night sessions. I’d climb into your room at night, spending hours riding you until we were both spent. Your parents were right about me being a bad influence, but neither of us cared.
We knew we should’ve been more careful, but stopping wasn’t an option. And neither of us wanted to.
Maybe this will catch up with us one day, but for now, we’re just going to keep going.
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