CONFESSION — I Rode Him Again

"Hey, didn’t expect to see you here tonight."

You turn at the sound of his voice, that low, familiar drawl cutting through the hum of the reunion party. It’s Jake, standing there with a beer in hand, looking at you like he’s seen a ghost. Or maybe a memory he’s been trying to bury. You smirk, adjusting the strap of your dress, knowing damn well what’s underneath is gonna wreck him. You’ve planned this for weeks, ever since you heard about the office reunion. Five years since you last saw him, since those nights that still creep into your head when you’re alone. You’re not here for small talk. You’re here to take him apart, piece by piece, and ride him until neither of you can think straight.

"Hey yourself," you say, stepping a little closer, letting your hip brush the edge of the table between you. The room’s packed with old coworkers, laughter and clinking glasses everywhere, but all you see is him. He’s got that same crooked grin, the one that used to make your knees weak in the break room after hours. You tilt your head, giving him a once-over. "You look… good."

He laughs, short and rough, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, you too. Real good." His eyes flicker down, just for a second, catching the way your dress hugs you. You don’t miss it. You never miss a damn thing when it comes to Jake. You take a sip of your drink, slow, letting your lips linger on the glass a little longer than necessary. He’s watching. Good.

"So, what’s it been, five years?" you ask, shifting your weight so your arm brushes his as you set the glass down. It’s nothing, barely a touch, but you feel the spark anyway. Like static. Like muscle memory. He doesn’t pull away, just nods, his jaw tightening a bit.

"About that," he says, voice a little quieter now. "Feels longer." There’s something in his tone, something heavy. You know what he’s thinking about. Late nights in his car, your skirt hiked up, his hands everywhere. You lean in just a fraction, enough that your breath grazes his ear when you speak.

"Doesn’t have to feel so long tonight," you murmur, then pull back like you didn’t just drop a bomb. His eyes narrow, but there’s heat there. You’ve got him hooked, even if he doesn’t admit it yet. You turn, gesturing toward the hallway. "I need to… freshen up. You coming to keep me company, or what?"

He hesitates, just a beat, then follows. You knew he would. You lead him down the corridor, past the chatter and music, until you push open the door to the restroom. It’s one of those single-occupancy deals, small, functional, a mirror over a sink and a lock on the door. Perfect. You step inside, and he’s right behind you, the click of the lock sounding louder than it should.

You turn to face him, leaning back against the sink, hands gripping the edge. "So," you start, voice light but loaded, "you gonna pretend you haven’t been thinking about me, or are we past that bullshit?"

He steps closer, not touching yet, but close enough you can smell the faint trace of his cologne, mixed with something sharper, like nerves. "I’m not pretending anything," he says, voice rougher now. "You know I’ve thought about you. Too damn much."

You smile, slow and dangerous, reaching up to toy with the thin strap of your dress. "Good to know." You let the strap slip down your shoulder, just an inch, revealing the edge of black lace underneath. His eyes drop to it like a magnet, and you see his throat work as he swallows. You’ve got him. You slide the other strap down too, letting the fabric dip low enough that the lace of your bra peeks out, sheer and barely covering anything. "Like what you see?"

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, stepping closer still, until there’s barely a breath between you. His hands hover at your hips, not quite touching, like he’s waiting for permission. You don’t give it. Not yet. Instead, you reach out, fingers brushing the front of his shirt, feeling the hard plane of his chest underneath.

"Missed this," you say, voice soft but pointed, dragging your fingers down to the waistband of his jeans. He sucks in a breath, sharp, and you feel the tension rolling off him. You pop the top button of his shirt open, then another, just enough to see the skin you used to know so well. Your fingertips graze him there, light, teasing. He’s holding himself together, but barely.

"You’re gonna get us in trouble," he says, but there’s no real warning in it. His hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your dress, and you tilt your head back to look at him.

"Only if we get caught," you reply, and then you’re pulling him in, your lips brushing his jaw first, not quite a kiss, just a test. He groans, low in his throat, and his grip tightens. You move to his neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss there, tasting the salt of his skin. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the edge of that lace, and you shiver, just a little, at the contact.

You pull back, just enough to slip out of his grasp, and then you’re tugging the dress down further, letting it pool at your waist. The lingerie underneath is all black lace, a bra that’s more gaps than fabric and a matching thong that leaves nothing to guesswork. His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide, and you can see the way his hands flex like he’s trying not to grab you right then and there.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, stepping in again, and this time his hands are on you for real, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip hard. You let him pull you in, your body pressing against his, feeling how hard he already is through his jeans. You roll your hips, just once, slow and deliberate, and he curses again, louder this time.

"Thought about this too much," he says, voice ragged, his thumb brushing the edge of your bra, slipping under the lace to graze skin. You gasp, quiet but sharp, and push into his touch. You reach down, palming him through the denim, feeling the heat, the shape of him. You’ve missed this too, more than you’ll ever say out loud.

"Show me how much," you tell him, popping the button of his jeans, dragging the zipper down slow. He’s watching you, eyes half-lidded, as you slip your hand inside, stroking him over the fabric of his boxers. He’s thick, hard, twitching under your touch, and you hum, satisfied, as his hips jerk forward.

"Not here," he says, but it’s weak, and you both know he doesn’t mean it. His hand slides down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your thong, tugging it just enough to tease. You step back, just out of reach, and hop up onto the edge of the sink, spreading your legs slightly, giving him a view he can’t ignore.

"Right here," you counter, voice low, daring. You reach behind, unclasping your bra with one hand, letting it fall away. Your chest is bare now, and his gaze is glued to you, hungry. He steps between your legs, hands on your thighs, pushing them wider. His thumbs brush the edge of the thong, and you tilt your hips up, inviting.

"Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me," he mutters, leaning in to kiss you for real this time, hard and messy, all teeth and tongue. You moan into it, quiet but desperate, hands fisting in his shirt as you pull him closer. His fingers slip under the lace, finding you already wet, and he groans against your mouth, stroking slow, testing.

"More," you gasp, breaking the kiss, head tipping back as he works you with those damn fingers, knowing exactly how to touch you. He’s always known. You shove his jeans down further, along with the boxers, freeing him completely. He’s hard, flushed, and you wrap your hand around him, stroking firm and slow, thumb swiping over the tip. He hisses, hips bucking into your grip.

"Need you," he says, voice raw, pushing the thong aside completely now, fingers slipping out to line himself up. You nod, breathless, guiding him with your hand, feeling the blunt press of him against you. He pushes in slow, just the tip at first, and you both groan at the stretch, the heat. It’s been too long. Too fucking long.

"Keep going," you tell him, voice tight, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. He obliges, sliding in inch by inch until he’s buried, until you’re full of him, and you can’t think past the way he fits. Perfect, like he always did. You rock your hips, urging him to move, and he does, pulling out just enough before thrusting back in, steady, deep.

"Goddamn, look at you," he says, hands gripping your hips now, holding you in place as he picks up the pace. You’re half-naked on a bathroom sink at a fucking reunion party, lace thong shoved to the side, and he’s fucking you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. You lean back, hands braced on the edge, letting your body arch, giving him a view of everything as you move with him.

"Harder," you demand, voice sharp, and he listens, snapping his hips faster, the sound of skin on skin filling the small room. You’re loud now, not caring who might hear, moans slipping out with every thrust. His hand slides up, cupping your breast, thumb rolling over the peak, and you shudder, clenching around him.

"Fuck, you’re tight," he grunts, other hand slipping between you, finding that spot that makes your breath catch. He rubs in tight circles, matching his thrusts, and you’re climbing fast, heat building low in your belly, sharp and urgent. You grab his shoulders, nails digging in, pulling yourself up a little so you can take control.

"Let me," you say, pushing him back just enough to shift. You slide off the sink, turning him so his back’s against the wall, and then you’re climbing onto him, straddling his hips, sinking down onto him again. He groans, head tipping back, hands gripping your ass as you start to ride him, slow at first, rolling your hips to feel every inch.

"Shit, that’s it," he says, voice wrecked, watching you move. You brace your hands on his chest, picking up speed, bouncing now, taking him deep every time. Your thighs burn, but you don’t care, too focused on the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s filling you up, the way his hands are guiding your rhythm.

"Missed this so fucking much," you pant, leaning down to kiss him again, sloppy and desperate. His tongue meets yours, and his grip tightens, helping you move faster, harder. You can feel it building, that sharp edge getting closer, and you know he’s right there with you, his breath ragged, his movements getting jerky.

"Don’t hold back," he tells you, voice low and filthy, one hand slipping up to tangle in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp. "Wanna feel you fall apart on me." That’s all it takes, his words, his touch, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters. You shatter, crying out, body locking tight around him as the pleasure rips through you, hot and blinding.

He’s not far behind, thrusting up into you a few more times, rough and uneven, before he’s groaning your name, spilling into you, hands holding you down so you take every bit. You’re both panting, slick with sweat, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart if you let go. You stay there, straddling him, feeling him soften inside you, not ready to move yet.

And then, just as you’re catching your breath, there’s a sharp knock on the door. Loud, insistent, cutting through the haze like a knife. You freeze, eyes wide, heart slamming in your chest as you meet his gaze. Neither of you moves, not yet, waiting to see if whoever’s out there will just go away.