My eyes are red and puffy when I open the door to Leo*, evidence of his betrayal and my sleepless night. When he moves for a hug, my body instinctively leans in before my mind catches up halfway, and I pause, brushing against him before pulling back. It feels so natural to hold him, to feel his weight and warmth, that I have to consciously resist. I remind myself he’s here to talk about last night; about the fact that he had cheated.
A flash of hurt crosses Leo’s gaze as I pull away, but he follows me into the flat and onto the sofa, where, soon enough, the truth starts to trickle out. At a wedding last night, Leo tells me, he kissed someone else. He’d panicked at the pace of our relationship and done the unthinkable. He offers no excuses, just admits that he isn’t ready for a relationship. I go from being his girlfriend to nothing. I had truly thought Leo was ‘the one’; that we were falling fast together. Now I was falling alone, and I hit the floor hard.
I feel devastated. The betrayal hurts, especially since I’ve opened up to him about my past experiences with infidelity. But his suggestion that we break up is just as painful, maybe even more so. We had both claimed until now that we’d never felt this way about someone, and yet he seems ready to throw in the towel.
Then he says it: “I love you.” It’s the first time he’s said those words out loud. Weeks ago, when they had stumbled out of my own mouth, he had whispered that he felt the same but needed time to say it. Now, he tells me that he loves me in the same breath that he says we’re over. The talking should lead to him leaving, but it doesn’t.
Exhausted and drunk on emotions, I find myself drawn to him, desperate to hold onto him while I still can. Leo asks if he can hug me. I nod. Kiss me? I nod again. I press against him, my body aching for reassurance; for the hope that we can find a way out of this mess.
I grip his shirt, nails digging in. I know I should be angry at him — and I am — but, right now, my passion feels more urgent. His hand is tangled in my hair, pulling exactly the way he knows I like. He knows everything: how wet I already am, how I want him to whisper it in my ear. He knows I want him, want this, need this. His body isn’t yet a stranger to me, so I know how he likes my hand wrapped around his cock, and I know that he wants me to bite his neck. I bite harder to leave a hickey that will outlive our relationship.
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Our shirts stay on, but his hand traces under mine, teasing and stroking my nipples. We slip off our respective underwear quickly and silently, not bothering with the romance of doing it for one another. I take his cock in my hand, delighted to find the tip soaked in precum. I feel proud knowing that only I have this effect on him. I bring a finger to my lips to sample his familiar taste. I begin to stroke along his length, and he moves his hand down along my body. He slips a finger inside me, making me groan with pleasure. He tries to finger me, but I’m impatient and I need him inside of me now. I want to minimise any space between us; to feel like our bodies are joined.
He enters me quickly, his cock harder than I have ever known it. I straddle him, riding him hard, pressing every inch into him. His hands are gripping my hips, clutching me like he doesn’t want to let go. Then we move to the floor, my back against the rough carpet, legs wrapped around him, him thrusting into me with force. He whispers constantly, grounding me in the moment, keeping me from drifting to before or after. “I’m yours,” he whispers. He knows how much I love to hear this; how it soothes my anxious attachment. But now it just sounds like a lie.
I come first, lost in the storm of sensation and emotion, and he follows right after, clearly holding back until I was ready. He moans my name when he comes, just the way I like it. We’ve learned to mould our pleasure to the other, but now all these lessons will be wasted. I won’t hear him say my name like that again, with so much satisfaction, instead it’ll sound sad and bittersweet whenever he utters it.
We lie there afterwards, tangled, hearts racing, minds spinning. It was the best sex we’d ever had, so full of feeling it almost hurts. During the act, I could forget the truth, forget the betrayal. I could pretend we were still us. He kisses me gently, strokes my back, and holds me as if letting go is impossible. But now I remember, and now I’m aware that these hands have touched another, these lips have kissed another, and his body is no longer mine. He will become yet another familiar stranger to me, and I’ll just be another ex to him.
Afterwards, we don’t say much, and the little conversation we have is administrative. We don’t want to go no-contact; he won’t be joining that holiday in August; and I’ll post back the book he loaned me when I finish it. It becomes a break-up to-do list. Eventually, we get out of bed. He leaves in tears, and mine follow soon after. Later, I message him, asking if it had just been easy sex for him. His reply is immediate: of course not. He’s never felt this way about anyone before, he says, and he wants to work on himself to give me everything I deserve.
Whether he means it or not, I don’t know. What I do know is that we don’t have break-up sex again. We don’t have sex again, full stop. But while I have many regrets about our time together, this will never be one of them. In the moment, I needed that reassurance and closeness. Our time together was filled with passion, and so the only way to end it was with, well, a bang.
*Name has been changed
