I always knew he looked at me differently. the way his eyes lingered a little too long, the way his touch would last just a second longer than it should. maybe i imagined it, maybe it was all in my head… or maybe it was just a matter of time.

it happened last weekend. i was staying over at my best friend’s house, like i had a hundred times before. but this time, she went out for a last-minute errand, leaving me alone with him. i was just in a tank top and shorts, lounging on the couch, pretending not to notice how his eyes kept drifting to my legs.

he sat next to me, closer than usual. we talked, small talk, harmless enough, until his hand casually landed on my thigh. i froze, heart pounding, but i didn’t move away. he must’ve taken that as permission, because his fingers started tracing slow circles on my skin.

“you know, i’ve been trying to be good,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. “but you make it really fucking hard.”

i should have stopped him. i should have said something. but when he leaned in, when his lips brushed against mine, i didn’t pull away. i let him kiss me, let him press me down into the couch, let him slide his hands under my shirt, touching me in ways that no one else had before.

it was fast, desperate, like he had been waiting for this moment as long as i had. when he finally pushed inside me, stretching me open, i had to bite my lip to keep from moaning too loud. his hands gripped my hips, holding me in place as he took what he needed, whispering filthy things in my ear, telling me how long he’d wanted this.

by the time my best friend got home, i was back on the couch, flushed, breathless, legs still shaking. he just gave me a knowing smirk before disappearing upstairs.

she has no idea. and i don’t know if i want her to.