The hoodie is soft and oversized, the kind that swallows me whole and makes the flat feel smaller in the nicest way. I am curled on the sofa with my legs tucked under, bare feet peeking out, a gentle cloud of vapour curling up from the vape between my fingers. Reality television murmurs in the background, all dramatic glances and over-the-top arguments that usually have me laughing out loud with the girls. Tonight the noise just fills the quiet. Outside the window Hackney is settling into its evening rhythm, distant traffic and the odd shout, but in here it is just me and the soft glow of the screen.
I take another slow pull and let the feeling settle. It starts low in my chest, that familiar deep ache, romantic and insistent all at once. I picture him again, the tall dark-haired one I have been waiting for. Not a random face from a night out this time. The one who stays. The one who knows exactly how to take me apart and then put me back together with the softest care.
In my mind the door opens and he is there, filling the space with that quiet confidence I crave. He crosses the room without a word, lifts me from the sofa as if I weigh nothing, and carries me to the bedroom. The hoodie is gone in a heartbeat, then the rest, and his hands are warm and sure on my skin. He kisses me the way I love, deep and lingering, the kind of kiss that makes my knees weak even when I am already lying down. His mouth travels lower, slow and deliberate, exploring every soft place until the heat builds so steadily I can hardly breathe. I feel the gentle pressure of his tongue, the warmth of his breath, the way my body answers without hesitation, hips lifting, fingers sliding into his dark hair. Pleasure rolls through me in long, rolling waves, each one stronger than the last, until I am trembling and gasping his name into the quiet room.
He does not stop there. He turns me, positions me, and the energy shifts into something higher, something that makes my heart race. Strong hands hold me exactly where he wants, the rhythm firm and relentless, every movement sending sparks deep inside. I feel completely taken, completely wanted, the sweet burn of surrender mixed with the pure joy of being filled so perfectly. Oral pleasure becomes something more, something fuller, and the sensations stack until I am shaking hard, crying out softly as the peak crashes over me again and again. He stays close through every tremor, kissing my shoulder, my neck, whispering things that make the aftershocks last longer.
When the intensity finally softens he gathers me against his chest. The sheets are warm. His heartbeat is steady under my cheek. One large hand strokes slowly down my back while the other finds my feet, thumbs pressing into the arches with the exact pressure I have always dreamed about. The massage is slow and thorough, each circle melting the last of the tension away until my whole body feels liquid and safe. He keeps kissing the top of my head, murmuring soft things, promising this is every night from now on. Regular. Certain. Mine.
I open my eyes and the television is still playing. The vape has gone cold in my hand. The ache is still there, sweeter now, almost hopeful. One day he will walk through that door for real. Until then I hold the picture close, smile to myself in the soft light, and let the quiet hope keep me company a little longer.
