I Was About to Leave, and He Showed Up at My Door

The decision had been made for three weeks. I had repeated it to myself every morning in front of the mirror, like a mantra that grew weaker with each repetition: put distance between us, catch the plane, don’t look back. Lisbon was the perfect plan. A new city, a work contract I’d been waiting months to sign, and miles between us that would do what I alone wasn’t capable of doing.

I had spent too long going around in circles over the same thing. Marcos wasn’t free, the situation had no way out, and keeping something alive that existed between late-night calls and stolen meetings wasn’t doing me any good. I knew that. I knew it with complete clarity. And even so, every time the phone vibrated with his name on the screen, something in me would stop for a moment before deciding.

That morning I got up before the alarm. The suitcase had been in the hall since Thursday, packed and ready. All I had left to do was go over the house, make sure everything was locked up, water the balcony plants, and leave a key with my neighbor Carmen for emergencies. The flight was on Sunday, but I wanted to have the last details sorted out in advance.

I went to the kitchen, put the coffee on to heat, and started going over my mental list. Gas bill: paid. Balcony: pending lock-up. Laptop charger: in the carry-on. Routine calmed me down. I liked that feeling of control, of having everything in its place before starting something new.

The phone vibrated on the counter.

It was Marcos.

I stared at it for a second, as if I could make it disappear just by looking at it. I let it ring. Five tones, six, seven. Silence. The coffee started to bubble, and I moved it off the heat.

It rang again.

This time I looked at it longer. Twenty seconds with his name lighting up the screen. I thought about answering, thought about letting it go, and in the end I let it go again. I poured myself the coffee, leaned against the counter, and looked out the window. The early-morning sky had that dirty gray that promises rain and almost never delivers it. I liked that sky. It reminded me of Sundays at my grandparents’ house, when nothing was urgent and nothing hurt.

Third call.

I picked up the phone.

—Hello —I said. My voice sounded calmer than I felt.

—Can we talk? —he said.

—You’re catching me busy —I replied. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth either.

The doorbell rang.

—Hang on, someone’s ringing. I’ll call you back.

—Don’t hang up —he said, with an urgency in his voice I hadn’t heard before—. Please. Open the door and stay with me.

I stood still for a moment. Then I walked to the door with the phone pressed to my ear. I opened it.

It was him.

Marcos on the landing, his phone still to his ear and a travel bag slung over his shoulder. He was looking at me as if he were afraid of what I might say. I said nothing. For a few seconds neither of us spoke. Both of us with the phone at our ears, staring at each other, in silence.

—Aren’t you going to invite me in? —he said, lowering the phone slowly.

—Are you...? —I started.

—Are you alone?

—Yes —I answered. And then, because I realized how that had sounded—: I mean, yes, come in.

He stepped inside. I left the door open a second longer than necessary, as if I were struggling to decide whether to close it or not. Then I closed it.

Before I could process anything, I threw myself at him. Without thinking. My arms around his neck, my face buried in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his travel clothes, that specific scent of his that I hadn’t been able to get out of any corner of my head no matter how many months went by.

—I missed you —I told him in his ear. It came out small, almost a whisper.

—More than you did me —he replied, and held me so tightly I ran out of breath for a moment.

We stayed like that. I don’t know how long. Long enough for the anger I’d built up to drain away and leave only the other thing, that thing I never knew how to call without it sounding wrong.

When he pulled back a little, he cupped my face in both hands and made me look at him.

—I’m here —he said—. For whatever you need. But if you want to end this, you’ll have to tell me now, looking me in the eye.

I looked at him. His eyes were dark, travel-worn, but steady. I didn’t look away. I kissed his cheek. Then the other one. I pressed myself harder against him.

—Why do you make it so hard for me, Marcos? —I murmured.

—I’m not making it hard for you. —He let go of me slowly, never taking his eyes off me—. What’s between us is complicated, I know that. But it isn’t impossible. And I don’t think you want it to be, even if you’re determined to pack your bags and cross half a continent.

I didn’t answer. I picked up his bag from the floor, set it against the wall, and took his hand.

—Come on —I told him.

I led him to the back patio. It was my favorite corner of the house: a covered gallery with light filtering through the wooden slats in the roof, a small palm tree in the corner, and a wrought-iron armchair upholstered with wide sand-colored cushions. That was where I sat on Sundays to read when I wanted the world to stop existing for a while.

I made him sit down. I sat on top of him, facing him, my legs on either side of his. I looked at him for a moment without saying anything.

—What do you want from me? —I asked. It was also a question I was asking myself, though I hadn’t dared put it that way until that moment.

—Everything you want to give me —he answered calmly—. And if you don’t want to give me anything, I’ll stay here anyway until you tell me properly.

I found his mouth. The kiss began carefully, slowly, as if we were both afraid of breaking something. Then it became more. His hands slid from my waist to my ass and pulled me against him, and all at once I felt the hard bulge between his legs pressing against me through our clothes. A moan escaped into his mouth before I could stop it. I started rubbing against his cock over his trousers, moving my hips in slow circles, feeling my cunt grow wetter with every stroke.

Lisbon can wait, I thought. And right after that: It’s always so easy for me to make the wrong choice with him.

He slid his hands up under my skirt and grabbed my ass directly, with nothing between his fingers and my skin except a strip of lace from my panties. He tore a moan out of me when he squeezed my cheeks and guided me more firmly over his lap. I bit his lower lip, sucked on it slowly, and stayed still for a moment, looking at him, my breathing already broken.

Then I stood up in front of him.

I lifted my skirt to my waist. I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my panties and pulled them down calmly, unhurriedly, down my thighs, until they fell to the tiled floor. I nudged them aside with my foot. I stayed like that for a moment, not moving, my skirt hiked up and my wet, bare cunt at the level of his eyes, looking at him.

He was looking at me with dark eyes, mouth parted, hands resting on the armrests of the chair, not moving either. I saw him swallow.

—Come here —he said, his voice already hoarse.

I still didn’t move closer. I hiked my skirt up higher, ran two fingers through my cunt, slowly, from top to bottom, so he could see how soaked I was. I lifted my fingers, gleaming, and brought them to his mouth. He sucked them without looking away, his tongue curling around them, and I felt the pull between my legs as if he were licking my clit directly.

I sat down again, facing him, with my legs open over his. Nothing between us except the fabric of his trousers. I started moving on him slowly, feeling him respond beneath the cloth, feeling his cock get harder little by little while I kept moving, my eyes locked on his.

—Is that what you want? —he asked, in a lower voice than before.

—I want you to fuck me —I told him in his ear—. Here. Now. Like when you stop thinking.

He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers without taking his eyes off me. I pulled his underwear down just enough and his cock sprang free, hard, thick, the tip already shining. I wrapped my hand around it. I squeezed slowly from base to tip, feeling it throb, and ran my thumb over the head, spreading the drop of fluid that had appeared there.

—Fuck —he murmured, tipping his head back against the chair.

I slid down. I knelt between his legs on the cold tiles and grabbed his cock with both hands. I ran my tongue from his balls to the tip in one long motion, and he let out a tight groan, clinging to the armrests. I circled the head with my lips, sucked the tip, played with my tongue over that sensitive spot just below it, until I felt his hips moving, looking for more.

I took him all the way in. As much as I could. I felt the back of my throat and stayed there for a second, swallowing around him, before coming back up slowly. Down again. Again. I found a rhythm, coating his cock in saliva, hearing him breathe more and more raggedly above me. —Stop, stop —he said, gently moving me away by the shoulders—, or I’m going to come in your mouth right now.

I smiled up at him from below, my lips shining, and wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. I stood up. I climbed back onto him, this time gripping his cock, setting it between the lips of my cunt without taking him inside, just rubbing him up and down. I slid the wetness over his shaft without letting him in yet, letting the head slip over my clit with each pass. I loved that moment. The anticipation. Watching him strain not to grab my hips and drive it in all at once, letting me control the rhythm without interfering.

I kept at it until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I lined the tip up with my entrance and lowered myself down. Slowly but without pausing. His cock opened me centimeter by centimeter, filling me, and I let out a sudden breath with my eyes closed when I took him all the way in. I stayed still for a second, feeling him throbbing inside me, and then I started moving.

I rose and fell, bracing my hands on his shoulders, feeling every centimeter go in and out. He held my hips with his hands, without forcing me, letting me set the pace, but every time I came all the way down he pushed up a little, driving himself deep into me. He yanked the neckline of my dress down, pulled my tits out, and took one nipple into his mouth. He sucked, bit slowly, tugged with his lips. I threw my head back and sped up, riding him harder, the sound of my soaked cunt swallowing his cock mixing with the creak of the chair.

—Like that, fuck, like that —I whispered—, don’t stop sucking my tits.

The filtered sun of the gallery warmed my shoulders. The morning was silent. Only the distant sound of birds in the courtyard, the creak of the chair, and the splash of our bodies.

I came with his cock buried to the hilt, wrapped around his neck, my face buried in his shoulder, biting his skin so I wouldn’t scream any more than I already was. I felt the spasms tightening around his dick in waves, and he held me there until I was completely finished, his hands firm on my back, not moving, letting me finish on him.

***

—Wait —he said when I tried to keep moving.

He lifted his hands gently. He told me to stand up. I did, my legs still trembling and his cock sliding out of me with a wet sound. He turned me slowly, made me put my hands on the back of the chair, with my legs slightly apart and my ass sticking out. I felt his hands on my cheeks, moving slowly, spreading me open carefully, leaving my ass exposed to his view.

—What a dirty girl you are —he murmured behind me, and gave me a sharp slap that made me jump.

He knelt behind me. I felt his mouth. His tongue, slow and precise, started at my cunt, licking me from back to front, sucking each lip one by one, slipping inside. He moved up to my ass. He traced the tip of his tongue over my other hole in slow circles, unhurriedly, and pushed the tip in slowly while he searched for my clit with his fingers in front. He took his time as if there were nothing more urgent in the world than that. I closed my eyes and leaned more of my weight on my arms, letting him do what he knew how to do. My body was still vibrating from the previous orgasm, and that made everything more intense, more immediate, as if my skin were a little thinner than usual.

—Marcos —I said, and I didn’t know whether it was a warning or a plea.

He slid two fingers into my cunt while he kept licking my ass, and I pushed my hips back for more. He pulled them out shining and ran them slowly over my other hole, wetting me thoroughly, sliding one finger inside little by little. I let out a long moan, gripping the iron of the chair back with both hands.

He stood back up. I heard the sound of saliva as he spat into his hand, and then I felt him rub his palm over his cock, soaking it. He placed one hand on my hip and guided the tip to the entrance of my cunt. He pushed gently at first, not forcing it, waiting for my body to give.

It gave.

The first sound that escaped me was involuntary. It wasn’t pain, or not only that. It was the mix of it, the feeling of being filled in a different way, the pressure in different places. He kept going, slowly at first, letting me get used to it, then with more rhythm, marking a beat that I matched by moving toward him, meeting him halfway, throwing my ass back against his hips every time he drove forward.

—Harder —I begged, my voice rough—. Fuck me harder.

He grabbed my hips with both hands and started fucking me in earnest. His cock went in and out with a wet, obscene sound that mixed with the slap of his thighs against my ass. He leaned over me, reached one hand around to the front, and found my tits first, squeezing them, pinching my nipples, then moved down to my clit.

—Touch me while you do it —I asked—. Please.

His fingers found my clit and started moving in the same rhythm as his hips. That was too much. Too many sensations in too many places at once: his cock pounding me all the way in, his fingers circling my clit fast and tight, his hot breath on my nape, his other hand in my hair, grabbing a fistful. I started moaning uncontrollably, my knuckles white against the iron backrest, my mouth open against the arm.

—Don’t stop —I murmured—. Like that, don’t stop. I’m going to come again.

He didn’t stop. He sped up. His cock hit bottom with every thrust, and his fingers never eased up on my clit for a second. I heard his breathing grow irregular, broken, and felt his thighs tightening against mine.

—I’m coming —he said, his voice taut—. I’m coming with you. Inside. Inside?

—Inside —I answered breathlessly—. Come inside, fuck, fill me up.

And he did. I felt his cock drive all the way in and get even harder for a second before the first surge. The heat filled me from within in waves while his fingers kept up the same merciless rhythm on me, and I let go too, squeezing his dick with my cunt in long spasms, my whole body shaking, clinging to the chair back, my legs weak and my head completely blank. I felt him throbbing inside me until the very last drop.

We stayed still for a moment. He came out slowly and I felt a warm thread of his semen run down the inside of my thigh. He rested his forehead against my shoulder, breathing hard. I didn’t move. The birds started up again somewhere in the garden, oblivious to everything.

***

Later, sitting in the patio with the coffee I had reheated and neither of us finished, he asked me when the flight was.

—Sunday —I said.

He nodded. He didn’t say anything else. That was Marcos: never pushing, never demanding, never giving me reasons to get angry with him. It’s much harder to walk away from someone who simply lets you go.

—I can change the date —I said, not looking at him. I said it to the cup, as if it weren’t important.

—You don’t have to —he replied—. But if you do change it, I’ll be here.

I looked at him. He had that same expression as always, calm, without urgency. The sun had risen enough now to warm the chair cushions, and the palm tree cast a long shadow over the tiles.

—You’re very uncomplicated for how complicated all this is —I told him.

He smiled without answering.

I picked up the phone. Opened the airline app. Looked up the Sunday flight and changed it to the following Wednesday, without saying anything, without explaining.

I set the phone face down on the table.

He didn’t ask either.