I slept with Tom, three months after we called it off forever. He picked me up from the pub I was drinking at with a friend, drove us to his office and we fucked on his desk.
Everything was familiar but everything was different. He knew, I think, how fragile our truce was. I had reached out to him weeks earlier to talk about my mum. We’d been speaking since, casually, about politics and work and uni. He took the piss out of me for doing so well at uni and I made a point of calling out his spelling mistakes. It was like it was before but it wasn’t.
We’d both said things last time we’d been together that we can’t take back. I knew where I was always going to stand with him. He was never going to walk away for me.
But the sex … still so raw and passionate if hasty. Months of build up exorcised from our bodies through lips and hands and cock. As I pushed paper and pens and bottles away, my breasts pressed into the desk, he fucked me from behind releasing the growl of the bear that renders me weak.
We dressed hurriedly, his cum leaking slowly from my cunt. He drove me to a different bar to meet my abandoned friend. We said goodbye without a kiss and it was a poignant reminder of the fact we can never be.