You Left Me Open By the Thought of You.

“No matter how many times I wash you off,

you find your way back between my thighs.”

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She wasn’t expecting him.

But the moment she heard that knock—just one, low and deliberate—her body answered before her feet did. She didn’t check the peephole. Didn’t fix the robe barely clinging to her shoulders. Just opened the door like she was hoping it would be him.

And it was.

He stood there with that half-smile that always made her knees remember what it meant to be weak. No words at first. Just that look—low and slow—like he could already taste what he hadn’t touched.

“Miss me?” she asked, playing it light, playing it cute, even though her pulse was sprinting.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered like a secret. “You smell like decisions,” he said, voice low and rough like the bassline of a song he’d hum against her skin.

She arched an eyebrow. “You gonna make one?”

He didn’t walk in. He stepped into her.

No warning, no asking.

His hand went to the curve of her hip, guiding her back one step, then another, until she hit the hallway wall.

His mouth didn’t go for hers right away—no. He went for her wrist first, kissed it like it was a vow. Then her collarbone. Then the space just below her ear that always pulled a soft gasp from her throat.

“You taste like you missed me more,” he whispered.

She did. God, she did.

She’d missed the way he touched her like she was something between prayer and punishment. The way his hands learned her all over again, even though he already knew her body better than she did. The way he took his time—never rushed, never clumsy—always starting with his tongue.

He kissed lower, slower, tracing the path her thoughts had already taken the second she opened that door. Tongue first. Then everything else. His hands. His weight. The moan she bit back because she wasn’t supposed to be this undone, this fast. But she was.

She always was with him.

Later, when she lay tangled in sheets and him, her fingers grazed his jaw. “Don’t stay away so long next time,” she murmured.

He just smiled, kissed her wrist again. “You know I like to come back when you're sweetest.”

And maybe she hated how true that was.

How soft he made her feel, even when he was ruining her.

How filthy it got, but never stopped feeling like love.

Or maybe she didn’t hate it at all.

She’d never admit it out loud.

But every time he left, she left a little open.

So when he came back, she’d already be ready.

Already wet.

Already wanting.

Already... his.

xoxo, S