I fucked my ex to feel something again

We met when we were nineteen. Stayed together for three years. Lived together for two. And then... shit broke.

This was the first time I’d seen him since. Eight weeks, four days. Not that I was countin’. But when he replied to my 1:17 AM text, "you up?", I was already outside.

He opened the door like he knew I was comin'. No shirt. Just them old navy sweats I used to steal.

"Damn, you look rough," he said, leaning in the doorway with that same half-smirk.

"You still talk too much," I said, stepping inside like I ain’t just spend the last month tryna forget him. Then I kissed him. Hard. Not sweet. Not slow. Just heat and mess and teeth. Like we both needed to hurt and heal at the same time.

My hand slid into his waistband, gripped what I already knew was there. Thick. Warm. Still curved just right. I dropped to my knees without sayin’ a word.

He groaned, deep, and let his sweats fall.

"Still greedy as fuck," he muttered, placing his hand on the back of my head.

"Still taste like home," I said, and swallowed him whole.

His cock filled my mouth easy. I didn’t need warm-up. My throat knew what to do. That taste? Still him. Skin. Sweat. Faint cologne. Like every night I laid alone jerkin' off to the memory. I moaned low, mouth full, hand twistin’ at the base.

"Shit, why you suckin’ like you starvin’?" he hissed, watching me.

"Maybe I am," I said, pullin’ off, spit slick on my chin.

"Fuck... you tryna kill me tonight," he whispered, voice tight.

I stood, breathin’ hard, and turned.

"You gon’ fuck me or what?" I asked, meetin’ his eyes.

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed my waist and bent me over the kitchen island. No questions. No lube. He spit in his hand, rubbed it on his dick, and lined up. Pressed in slow, deep, like he missed the way I opened for him.

"Damn... still tight as fuck," he muttered.

I grunted, knuckles white on the counter.

"Still fits," I said, voice shaky.

He started movin’. Slow first, then faster, deeper. Every thrust hit a place memory lived. Like our old rhythm was still in us, waitin' to wake up.

"You be thinkin' 'bout this?" he asked, pantin’ behind me.

"All the fuckin’ time. Hate how much I do," I said.

He grabbed my shoulder, pulled me back onto him, got real deep. Balls hittin’ skin, drawer handles diggin’ my thighs.

"You still mine when I’m in you like this?" he asked, breath hot on my neck.

"Don’t ask shit you already know," I said, eyes rollin’.

He reached under, grabbed my dick, already leakin’. Stroked me like he still remembered the grip.

"Cum for me," he said, voice low, close.

"I’m close. Don’t stop, don’t fuckin’ stop..." I gasped.

I busted hard. Body tight, cock shootin’ all over the counter. He kept goin’, hips slammin’, breath gettin’ louder.

"Where you want it?" he asked, pullin’ out just in time.

"Where you always used to," I told him.

Hot ropes of cum hit my back. Sticky. Familiar. He leaned over me, breathin' hard, forehead restin’ on my shoulder. Neither of us said shit for a long second. Then he tossed me a towel.

"This was a mistake," I said, not even lookin’ at him.

"Yeah," he replied, already pullin’ his sweats back up.

I pulled my pants on, no underwear. Stopped at the door.

"Still felt like home though," I said, low.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.