I Confess What We Did All Afternoon at His House

I have to write this before it slips away, because there are afternoons you want to keep whole, exactly as they happened. That Friday I went to Mateo’s house with no clear plan, just wanting to see him. It was barely nine in the morning and the city was already boiling: thirty-four degrees, the asphalt shimmering, my dress stuck to my back the whole way there.

When he opened the door, he had just gotten out of the shower. His hair was damp, his robe half-open, and that clean soap scent of his that undid me the second I crossed the threshold.

“You smell so good,” I told him, and immediately laughed at myself. “I, on the other hand, am a mess. I’m going to have to shower, I’m sweating.”

“Not a chance,” he replied, closing the door behind me.

He meant it. He took me by the waist, looked at me for a second as if he were deciding something, and before I could answer he lifted me off the floor. I let out a cry halfway between surprise and laughter as he carried me to the living room sofa.

We had not seen each other for three weeks. Between his work and my impossible schedule, the wanting had piled up like a debt, and you could feel it in the way he held me, in the urgency of his fingers digging into my waist. This was not the polite touch of someone just starting something: it was the touch of someone who had been holding back for far too long.

I didn’t come for this, I thought. But this is exactly what I came for.

He laid me back slowly among the cushions and began to undress me without rushing, sliding my dress up and over my head. Then he started kissing me: my neck, my collarbone, the hollow between my breasts. His hands traveled every inch of my skin as if he wanted to memorize it, and I felt the heat from outside mingle with another, different heat rising from my belly.

“I’m all sweaty,” I insisted, still a little embarrassed.

“That’s why,” he murmured against my skin.

***

He gently parted my legs and went down. When I understood what he was going to do, I tried to close them out of pure reflex, but he didn’t let me. He held my thighs open with both hands and brought his face close.

“Let me,” he said softly. “Your scent is exquisite, baby.”

And he kissed me over my underwear, still damp from the heat and the wanting. I felt his breath, the warm pressure of his mouth through the fabric, and whatever last trace of shame I had evaporated at once. He was genuinely turned on by me. I knew it when he came back up, kissing my stomach, lingering on each breast, and his robe fell open completely, showing me how hard he was.

We finished undressing each other between clumsy, hurried kisses. I pulled his robe off his shoulders, he hooked my underwear with his thumbs and slid it down. We were skin to skin, and then we turned without needing to say anything.

I love his body in a way that’s hard to explain. I took him into my mouth slowly, running my tongue over him completely before reaching the tip, while he buried his face between my legs. I braced my hands on his hips and set a slow rhythm, going up and down, feeling him swell even more against my tongue.

He parted my folds with his fingers and worked my clit with a patience that made me tremble. Every time I sped up, he sped up; when I paused to breathe, he waited too. That synchronicity was what I liked most about him, that way he could read me without my having to say a word.

I felt the first orgasm rise slowly, from my thighs upward, and I knew I would not be able to stop it. I clenched my legs around his head almost without meaning to. We came at almost the same time, each of us undone in the other’s mouth, and I stayed still for a moment, breathless and with my heart pounding against my ribs.

“Come here,” he said then, taking my hand.

***

We moved to the bedroom. The blinds were halfway down and the light came in thin stripes over the unmade bed. I stroked him until he was hard again, which did not take much, and he settled between my legs.

Since he had already come once, this time it lasted forever. He started gently, sinking all the way in and staying there for a moment before moving again. Then he kept changing position, unhurried, as if we had the whole morning ahead of us. And we did.

He lifted my legs high and penetrated me deeply, with a force that tore a moan from me I could not hold back. Then he brought me to the edge of the bed, on my side, biting my shoulder. Then I sat on top of him and rode him for a good while, setting the pace myself, leaning down to kiss him, feeling another orgasm grow and break apart while he held my hips. We ended up again as we had begun, me on my back and him on top, fucking me hard until he left me breathless.

I lost count of how many times I came. It was more than five, for sure, before he emptied himself inside me with a rough growl against my neck.

We stayed tangled together for a long while, not talking, listening to the hum of the fan and the distant traffic. I like that silence afterward, when there is nothing left to prove.

***

Later he got up and made something to eat. I watched him from the bed moving around the kitchen, still naked, taking eggs out of the refrigerator and arguing with himself over whether there was enough bread. There is something deeply intimate about watching someone cook for you after sex, a trust that cannot be faked.

We ate naked in the kitchen, sitting across from each other, laughing at anything and trading gossip from the week as if we were an old couple and not two lovers who see each other whenever they can. I told him about my unbearable boss, he told me about a new neighbor. But the heat between us had not gone out completely; it was still there, throbbing beneath the conversation, waiting.

I started stroking him again almost without realizing it, from top to bottom, while he pretended to concentrate on the coffee. I leaned down and took him in my mouth, jerking him slowly, stroking him with my other hand until he stopped pretending. He ran one hand over my ass and the other over my breast, and then he gently pushed my forehead aside and sat me up.

“Up,” he said, and seated me on the table.

He parted my legs and pushed me back until I was reclining between the plates. What came after was slow and maddening: his mouth working my clit while his fingers went in and out of me with a freedom that made my back arch. Just when I was about to come, he stopped. He pulled his fingers out, straightened up, and replaced them with a single thrust to the hilt that cut off my moan in my throat.

He started moving with a fierceness that did not seem like someone who had already finished twice that morning. He held me by the waist, caressed my breasts, my ass, alternating, and I clutched the edge of the table so I would not slide. Then he lifted me, kissed me with his chest pressed to mine without stopping fucking me, and the whole apartment was reduced to that rocking motion.

***

He pulled out of me and helped me down from the table. Without letting go, he bent me forward and positioned himself behind me. I understood what he wanted and made it clear by arching a little more.

He parted my ass cheeks with his hands and took his time. He lubricated with saliva, ran the tip up and down, first one side and then the other, without rushing anything. When he finally pushed in, he did it slowly, letting me breathe between each advance. He went halfway in, stayed still, caressed my back until I stopped tensing, and kept going until he was almost all the way inside.

He held my waist and began to move at a slow, deep rhythm, making me feel every inch. There was no hurry in him, only the desire to enjoy it slowly. I rested my forehead on my forearms and let myself go, once again surprised by how much I loved that sensation that had been so hard for me to discover with others.

He caressed my whole body while gradually speeding up. He murmured things I could not quite make out, broken words against the back of my neck, and each one pushed me a little closer to the edge. When he could no longer hold back, he came inside me with a shudder I felt run through him from head to toe.

We collapsed onto the sofa, he sitting and me on top, still joined, until our bodies asked for a break and we separated almost without meaning to.

***

We cleared the table together. We put on a movie neither of us really watched and ate something in the middle of the afternoon, always naked, without shame, as if clothing were an unnecessary formality between us. Then we got into the shower together, the one I had promised myself so much when I arrived, and we soaped each other with a tenderness that had nothing in common with the frenzy of hours before.

As night fell, we finally got dressed and went out to catch the last train to Valencia, laughing at how little of the original plan we had actually carried out. I went with weak legs and a smile that would not fit on my face.

I confess it without guilt: it was one of the best afternoons of my life. And as the train pulled away and the city lit up behind the window, I was already thinking about next Friday.