What We Are (And What We’re Not)
The silence in the truck wasn’t awkward. It was full. Sated. Stretched thin and humming with everything that had just happened. Everything I still couldn’t believe we’d done. I couldn’t stop touching him. My hand was locked in his, our fingers interlaced like my body wasn’t done with his yet. Like I could f**k him forever and still not have enough. Still not feel full. Every part of me buzzed—my skin, my blood, the ache between my legs that hadn’t eased even after the third time. I should’ve felt embarrassed by that. By how needy I’d been. By how badly I still wanted him. But I didn’t. I felt… high. Drunk on him. On the way he tasted, the way he moved, the way he made me feel like there was no one else in the world but us. I was floating—until he opened his mouth. “I meant what I
- Writer
