He Showed Up at My Door Before I Left

For weeks I’d been telling myself the best thing was to put some distance between us. That if I went to Berlin for a few months, time and miles would do their work: they’d cure me of him the way you recover from the flu, with rest and patience. I repeated it so many times I almost believed it.

There were nights when I’d lie there staring at the ceiling and wonder exactly when I’d lost control of the situation. It wasn’t the first time someone had made my life complicated, but Marcos had a particular way of settling into my head without asking permission. I heard him in songs that had nothing to do with him. I remembered him when I smelled freshly brewed coffee. It was ridiculous, and I knew it, which made it even more irritating.

That’s why I decided to leave.

That morning I woke up with the same knot in my chest as always, but there was something different: the luggage was already in the hallway, the taxi was booked for six in the evening, and my plane ticket was real, not a fantasy. Three weeks at my friend Clara’s place, maybe longer if I found work there. Enough to forget. Or so I hoped.

I spent the morning going through the house, checking that I hadn’t left anything on, that the plants had been watered, that the mail had been forwarded. It was a Tuesday in March, and the sun was slanting through the kitchen window, that cold late-winter sun that doesn’t warm you up but still gets in the way. I had the odd feeling of someone leaving something behind without being entirely sure they want to.

Then the phone rang.

I saw his name on the screen and ignored it. It rang again. I let it go to voicemail. A third call. I stood there staring at the phone on the counter and told myself I wouldn’t answer it, that that was exactly what I was running from: his habit of showing up whenever I’d already decided I didn’t need him.

It rang a fourth time and I picked up.

“Hello,” I said, trying to make my voice sound flat, without temperature.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“I can’t right now, I’m tied up with stuff around the house.”

“Just a minute. Please.”

That “please” threw me off. Marcos didn’t use it much. Before I could answer, someone knocked on the door. I thought it was my neighbor from upstairs, who sometimes came by to ask for cigarettes or chat about whatever. I walked toward the entrance with the phone pressed to my ear.

“Hey, someone’s knocking. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Wait,” he said. “Don’t hang up. Open the door.”

I stopped dead in the middle of the hall.

I opened it.

It was Marcos. He was standing on the landing with his coat on and his phone in his hand, looking at me with that expression of his I never quite managed to read: half apology, half determination. He had dark circles under his eyes. He’d clearly been sleeping badly for days, you could tell even from the doorway.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” he asked, still with the phone to his ear.

I didn’t say anything. I stepped aside.

He came in, dropped his jacket on the chair in the entryway, and stood there looking at the suitcases piled against the wall. He counted them. Three. Then he looked at me, and in that look there was a question that didn’t need to be voiced.

“When’s the flight?” he asked at last.

“At six fifteen.”

“Then we have time.”

***

I don’t know who moved first. I only remember that suddenly we were wrapped around each other in the middle of the hallway, his chin resting on the top of my head, his coat still cold from outside, and my face buried in his neck, trying not to breathe too deeply because his smell hurt. The kind of hurt you go looking for.

“I missed you,” I told him, and I hated myself a little for how easily it came out.

“And I missed you,” he replied. “That’s why I’m here.”

I pulled back a little to look at him. I wanted to ask what he expected to happen, what the point of this last-minute visit was, whether everything we’d said to each other in the past few months still stood or if he’d thrown it all overboard with the simple act of showing up at my door. But I didn’t say any of that.

I kissed him.

It was a long kiss, unhurried, one of those that start slowly and find their own rhythm. I bit his lower lip and he let out a low groan that went straight down to my cunt. His hands went around my waist, down to my ass, and pulled me against him with a firmness that left no room for doubt: he was already hard, I could feel it pressing against my stomach through his trousers. Mine went automatically to the back of his neck, tugging at his hair to take his tongue deeper into my mouth. Outside, a car passed on the street and the sound came in muffled, like from another world.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” I murmured against his mouth.

“I know,” he said. “Do you care?”

I did care. Of course I cared. But in that moment I couldn’t bring myself to care enough to pull away. There was something about having him there, real and present, with his hard cock pressed against me, that made all my reasons for leaving sound a little abstract, a little theoretical.

“Come on,” I said.

I led him into the living room. There was little light, only what came in through the terrace windows, that soft gray of a winter afternoon. I sat on the sofa and pulled him toward me to sit beside me, but he preferred to stand in front of me for a moment, looking at me. As if he wanted to take in how I was before everything changed.

I stood up, put him with his back to the sofa, and gently pushed until he sat down. I opened his legs with my knee and knelt between them on the rug. I unbuckled his belt without looking at his face, with that calm, focused concentration I knew drove him wild. I lowered the zipper, tugged his trousers and briefs down to mid-thigh, and his cock sprang up, hard, thick, the tip already shining with pre-cum.

I took him in my hand and held him for a second, feeling him pulse. I ran my thumb over the head, spreading that thick drop across the crown, and looked up at him from below just as I took him into my mouth.

I went down slowly. Tongue flat under the vein, lips tight, letting him reach the back of my throat until tears sprang to my eyes. Marcos let out a rough moan and buried his fingers in my hair, not pushing, just holding on, as if he needed something to steady himself with. I pulled back, gathered saliva, and went down again. And again. I found a slow, deliberate rhythm, sucking hard on the way up, feeling his cock get even harder between my lips.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “Fuck, like that.”

I licked the full length of him, from base to tip, looking him in the eyes. I ran my tongue over his balls and took one into my mouth, sucking carefully while I stroked him with a slow, steady hand. His eyes were half closed and his jaw was clenched. He loved watching me do that and I knew it. That’s why I did it slowly, letting it build inside him.

When I took him deep again, I felt him start to tremble. I popped off him with a little smack.

“Not yet,” I told him.

I stood up. I slipped my panties off beneath my skirt and let them fall to the floor without ceremony. Then I climbed onto him, knees on either side of his hips, and rubbed my soaked cunt against his cock without taking him in yet. Just the friction. My cunt lips opening around his shaft, wetting him all over from top to bottom. Marcos groaned and dug his fingers into my hips.

“Take it already,” he said, voice rough.

“This is what I want,” I corrected him, telling myself the same thing too.

I ground against him a little longer, slowly, letting the friction light up my clit against the base of his cock, feeling myself get wetter and wetter. I loved that moment just before: when there was still tension, when every movement was a promise not yet kept. Marcos knew it. That’s why he let me do it, hands on my hips and eyes locked on mine, even though I could see the vein in his neck pulsing from holding back.

When I decided he’d waited long enough, I lifted myself slightly, took his cock in my hand, positioned it at my entrance, and sank down.

He slid in all at once, all the way, and I let out the breath I’d been holding without realizing it in a long moan. I stayed still for a moment, impaled, getting used to the weight of him inside me, feeling his cock fill me completely and touch places nobody had touched for months. I squeezed my cunt walls around him and he swore under his breath.

Then I started moving.

At first slowly, rising until I almost lost him and dropping back down along his length, feeling every inch. Then faster. I braced myself on his shoulders and started riding him hard, bouncing on his lap, my breasts moving beneath my T-shirt until he lifted it and pulled my tits out of my bra to suck on them. He trapped one nipple between his teeth, tugging just enough, and I let out a cry.

“Keep going,” I begged. “Don’t stop.”

He ran his tongue from one nipple to the other while I speared myself on his cock, and the living room was reduced to that: my ragged breathing, his, the wet sound of my cunt impaling itself over and over on him, the sofa creaking under our weight, the gray March light coming in through the terrace. I could feel the orgasm building low in my belly, tight, taut, ready to burst.

“I’m coming,” I gasped. “Marcos, I’m coming.”

“Come on me,” he said in my ear. “Do it.”

I came without drama, leaning on his shoulder, biting my lip to keep from screaming, shaken from the inside by spasms that clenched his cock in waves. He held me by the waist and kept thrusting from below, stretching it out for me until the last tremor let me collapse against his chest.

We stayed like that a little longer, him still inside me, while I caught my breath. Then he stopped me.

“Wait,” he said.

***

He told me to stand up. I obeyed, my legs still trembling and my cunt wet with both of us. He positioned me with my back to him, leaning forward, hands on the back of the sofa and legs spread wide. He hiked my skirt up to my waist and left it there, bunched up, with my ass bare. The position alone already turned me on. I knew what was coming and I wanted it.

I felt his mouth first.

He knelt behind me and pulled my ass cheeks apart with his hands, slowly, with an attention that always surprised me even though I knew it was coming. His tongue started at my cunt, licking from bottom to top, gathering what was left of my first orgasm. He sucked my lips, slid his tongue inside, pulled it out, and ran it over my clit in slow circles that tore a long moan from me.

Then he moved up.

I felt the tip of his tongue right at the other hole, and a gasp escaped me, and I couldn’t tell if it was surprise or pure pleasure. He licked me slowly, making me nice and wet, unhurried, letting me get used to it. He alternated: tongue in my ass, two fingers buried in my cunt moving slowly inside me, the pad of his thumb rubbing my clit. Everything at once. The contrast between the calm of his movements and the intensity of what I felt was exactly what I loved most about him.

I was already pretty aroused from before, and that took me to the edge very quickly. My legs were trembling. I felt myself starting to lose my balance and gripped the sofa more tightly, clenching my jaw to keep from coming yet.

“Marcos,” I said softly. Just that. Just his name.

He straightened up. I felt the pressure of his hand on my hip, and then his cock sliding over my cunt first again, pushing in a couple of times to lubricate himself with me, before pulling away and finding another place, higher up, tighter. I’d been expecting it. I’d wanted it from the start.

I braced my hands better and lowered my hips a little to make it easier for him. He spat on my ass and spread the spit with his thumb, pressing in a little, opening me up.

“Yes,” I said before he could ask. “Put it in there.”

I felt the tip rest against my hole, round and hot. He pressed slowly. At first it didn’t give, and I breathed deep, relaxing, pushing back slightly against him. The head went in all at once and I let out a muffled moan. Marcos went still.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Keep going,” I said. “Slowly, but keep going.”

He went in carefully, centimeter by centimeter, giving me time to adjust. It was a completely different sensation: denser, more focused, with that edge between discomfort and pleasure that drove me crazy if I was aroused enough. And I was. Very. I could feel my ass opening around his cock, stretching for him, every millimeter he gained dragging a different gasp from me.

“More,” I begged.

He pushed a little deeper. And a little more. Until I felt his hips against my ass and knew he was all the way in. He stayed still for a moment, his cock buried to the hilt in my ass, and I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on breathing, on letting my body take him.

When he started moving, he did it slowly, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in, finding a rhythm he wanted me to match with my hips. I matched it. I started pushing back on every thrust, going out to meet him, fucking him too.

Every thrust came with a clarity that emptied my head. I wasn’t thinking about the flight, or the suitcases, or the miles I was about to put between us. I was just there, hands on the sofa back, his cock filling my ass and my cunt dripping, abandoned between my legs.

“Touch me,” I asked him. “My cunt. Finger me too.”

His hand circled my hip and moved down. Two fingers sank into my cunt at once, without ceremony, and started pumping in the same rhythm as his thrusts in my ass. The sensation of being filled in both places made me let out a cry that surprised me. His thumb found my clit and started rubbing it with precision, without hesitation. It was too much. It was exactly what I needed.

“Don’t stop,” I said, and I didn’t recognize my own voice. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”

He sped up. His hips began crashing against my ass with a dry sound, his fingers were pounding my cunt, his thumb was rubbing my clit without pause, and I started tightening in a slow, total way until everything broke all at once. I came with a sound I couldn’t control, a long, sharp moan that came from somewhere very deep, shaken from beginning to end, involuntarily clenching around him, my cunt squeezing his fingers and my ass spasming closed around his cock.

That pushed him over too. I heard him let out a rough gasp, his fingers dug marks into my hip, and he started fucking my ass with short, furious thrusts, chasing his own release.

“Inside,” I begged. “Come inside.”

Two more thrusts and I felt him go. His ragged breathing near my ear, his hands gripping my hips, and that deep, liquid heat that filled me in spurts while he finished emptying himself into me. I felt every pulse of his cock spilling out, and I let out one last moan when I felt it.

He stayed there, still, inside me, breathing hard, forehead resting between my shoulder blades.

We stayed like that for a moment. Not moving. Not talking. Feeling his come settle inside me and him slowly softening before carefully pulling out. When he did, a warm thread ran down the inside of my thigh and I couldn’t be bothered to wipe it away.

***

After that I went to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror: hair tousled, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, and a red mark on my neck I didn’t remember him making. I took a couple of minutes. I cleaned myself slowly between my legs, feeling what he’d left inside me come out. I breathed. I gathered my breath and also a bit of myself that had scattered through the living room.

When I came back, Marcos was sitting on the sofa with his clothes back in order, looking at the suitcases stacked by the entrance wall. He didn’t say anything when I sat down beside him. Neither did I.

“The taxi gets here in an hour and a half,” I said at last.

“Okay.”

“This doesn’t change what we talked about.”

“I know.”

We both knew it. But we also both knew that was a lie, or at least half a lie, the kind people tell when they have nothing better to offer. Because something had changed, even if neither of us was going to admit it out loud.

I leaned on his shoulder. He didn’t move. Outside, it was starting to get dark and the living room light was growing warmer, more intimate, just as I was about to leave.

“Will you be okay?” he asked after a while.

“Yes,” I said. “And you?”

“Yes.”

Neither of us sounded very convincing. But there was something in saying it anyway, in keeping that small tacit agreement that we were both adults and could handle this, that was almost comforting even if it was a lie.

When the taxi alert came through, Marcos took the suitcases downstairs without me asking. He helped me put my handbag into the smallest trolley. He did those things naturally, as if they were the most normal thing in the world, as if this wasn’t the last time he’d be in my apartment for a long while.

At the door he kissed me. Short. On the mouth, but short.

“Text me when you get there,” he said.

“Of course.”

I took the elevator. When the doors closed, I leaned against the metal wall and shut my eyes. I could still feel him inside me. His cock in my ass, his fingers in my cunt, his hot come sliding down the inside of my thigh on the way to the airport. That was exactly the kind of memory it would take me weeks to shake off, and we both knew it perfectly well when we decided to do it anyway.

The taxi was waiting double-parked with the lights on. I got in, gave the airport address, and looked out the window as the car pulled away. I didn’t look toward the building entrance.

But I knew, without looking, that he still hadn’t moved.