My Best Friend's Girlfriend Leaned Into Me That Night

I met my best friend’s girlfriend a little over a year ago, and to be honest, at first she didn’t catch my eye at all. She’s pretty, much prettier than the girls Bruno had dated before, but she wasn’t my type. I’d always been into girls my own age, and she was almost ten years older than me: I was twenty-four, and both she and Bruno were in their early thirties.

Whenever there was a get-together with friends, a dinner, or a birthday, we’d end up together. Everything was calm. We got along well, talked about anything, and that was that. It never even crossed my mind that there could be anything more, not even remotely.

Until about a month ago. One afternoon we were left alone at her place while Bruno and some other friends went downstairs to buy food. We were both on the couch, with the TV on in the background, and all of a sudden she made a strange comment.

—That haircut looks incredible on you —she said, glancing at me sideways—. You know something? If I were ever with a woman, it would be someone like you.

I laughed, not really sure what to say.

—I don’t like girls who are too masculine or too delicate —she went on, shrugging—. You’re right in the middle. Perfect, I’d say.

Perfect. She said it like it was nothing.

I didn’t give it much importance at the time. I thought it was one of those things people say without thinking, the kind nobody remembers a while later. But something lodged itself in my head, a tiny splinter that wouldn’t quite come out.

That same night, when I got home, I was surprised to find myself thinking about the way she’d looked at me. It wasn’t the look of a woman making a joke in the air. It was a look that lingers, that measures, that waits for a reaction. I dismissed it right away, of course. She was Bruno’s girlfriend, my best friend since college, the person I shared half my life with. There was no room for that kind of thought.

Over the next few days I tried to treat her the same as always. But something had shifted out of place. Every time I saw her, my mind started looking for signs where there had been nothing before: the way she’d leave her hand near mine on the table, how much she laughed at my jokes, those comfortable silences that suddenly didn’t seem so innocent anymore.

***

Things really changed a couple of weeks later. We were leaving an event very late, almost at dawn: Bruno, his girlfriend, me, and another friend, Damián. We were far from our homes, so we decided to crash at Damián’s place, which was only a few blocks away.

When we got there, the usual jokes started. That I’d have to sleep with Damián, that maybe something would happen between us. Ridiculous, because I’m not interested in men, and especially not Damián, whose face doesn’t exactly help. In the end we sorted it out quickly: the guys got settled on a mattress in the living room and the two of us in the back room, in the only bed.

The night was going well. We could hear Bruno and Damián talking and laughing on the other side of the door, and in the room we did the same. She told me a ton of stories, and we asked each other questions to get to know one another better: the music we listened to, exes, pets. That long, messy kind of conversation that comes out at four in the morning when nobody wants to sleep yet.

Until the real moment to sleep arrived. We turned off the light and got under the sheets, each on our own side. I thought that was the end of it, that I’d close my eyes and that would be that.

—I love sleeping spooning —she said suddenly, letting out a laugh that was way too naughty to be innocent—. Little spooning, I mean.

I played along with the joke. I moved in behind her and held her, keeping some distance, because we were only just starting to get comfortable and I didn’t want to make her uneasy. But she wasn’t interested in distance in the slightest.

She pushed her body back until she was pressed all the way against me. I felt her back against my chest, her hips fitting into mine. And then she started moving. Slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, as if it were by accident. Then a little more. She rubbed her ass against my pelvis again and again, in a rhythm that was anything but casual.

—You like doing that, don’t you? —I whispered in her ear.

She didn’t answer. Instead of words, she pressed even tighter, found my hand and brought it to her hip so I’d hold her while she kept moving against me. My heart was pounding against my ribs. I could feel the heat rising from the contact, that mix of not being able to believe it and not wanting it to stop for anything in the world.

I stopped pretending it was a game. I slid my arm around her waist, then lower over her thighs, matching the motion she herself was setting. Her breathing was no longer that of someone about to fall asleep: it was short, strained, broken every time she ground herself deeper.

With a quick motion she pulled down her underwear and arched her back, offering me everything. After that there was no way to keep thinking. I moved my hand down, felt how wet and hot she was, and slipped between her folds with two fingers first, then three. She swallowed a moan against the pillow so it wouldn’t be heard on the other side of the door.

Every so often, from the living room came a laugh from Bruno or Damián, the sound of the TV they’d left on. That closeness, instead of stopping us, turned us on more. We were doing something we shouldn’t, just a few feet from the man sleeping soundly, and we both knew it. She made that clear to me when she turned just enough to pin me with her eyes in the dark, without a trace of guilt.

—Slower —she whispered—, or they’ll hear us.

But she didn’t want slower; she said it with her mouth and asked for the opposite with her body. Every time I eased off, she pushed her hips looking for me. I held her like that for a good while, pressed against my chest, while with my other hand I lifted her T-shirt and stroked her breasts. Her skin was burning. So was mine.

***

At some point she turned over and shoved me down onto the mattress. I ended up on my back and she settled on top of me, wearing that half-smile I’d already seen before at her place, the one from the out-of-place comment. Only now I understood exactly what it meant.

She came down my body without hurrying, scattering kisses along my neck, my chest, my stomach, until she reached the place we both knew. When her mouth found me, I thought I wasn’t going to be able to stay quiet. She sucked me slow and firm, and every movement made my back arch. I had to bite my wrist so I wouldn’t wake half the house.

—I feel everything —she murmured at one point, lifting her head just slightly—. Everything.

We settled against each other, legs tangled, seeking that friction that drove both of us wild. Her energy was unbelievable. I thought we’d have to stop any second, but she didn’t let up: she climbed on top, set the pace, leaned down to kiss me, and started again. It felt like she’d been holding it in for a whole year and was letting it all go at once, with me.

I didn’t hold back. I flipped her over, kissed her breasts one by one, worked my way down slowly until she had to cover her mouth with her hand. I gave her exactly what she had given me, and I felt her trembling all over, clutching my hair, repeating my name in a thread of a voice you could barely hear.

There was something desperate in the way she sought me out, as if she’d been holding herself back for a long time and only now allowed herself to let it all go. She grabbed my face, kissed me hard, bit my lip, and then laughed softly, amazed at herself. In the pauses, when we stopped to catch our breath, she stroked my hair in silence, and that tenderness unnerved me even more than the sex.

—You can’t imagine how long I’d been thinking about it —she told me at one point, her voice hoarse, her mouth right by my ear—. Since that afternoon at my place.

I didn’t answer. I kissed her again, long and slow, and let her body speak for me.

We stayed like that for almost the whole night. We stopped a little, caught our breath, looked at each other in the dimness without saying anything, and started again. I don’t know how many times. I lost count somewhere between exhaustion and desire.

We only stopped when she decided to, with the first light already slipping through the curtain. She settled against my shoulder, breathless, and fell asleep almost instantly, as if none of what had happened was out of this world. I stayed awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand when exactly my life had drifted so far off script.

***

The next morning we acted as if nothing had happened. The four of us had breakfast, made jokes about how badly you sleep on a mattress, and each went their own way. She didn’t even look at me differently. Bruno was still Bruno, oblivious to everything, telling me about his plans for the weekend.

Since that night we’ve run into each other several more times, and a couple of those ended in something. Never as intense as the first time, but enough for me to keep looking for excuses to be around them.

I know it’s wrong. She’s my best friend’s girlfriend, one of the people I care about most, and every time I think about it I get a stab of guilt. But then I see her walk into a get-together, catch that sideways look from her, and the guilt lasts only as long as it takes me to sit down beside her.

I don’t know how this is going to end, or how much longer I’ll be able to keep up the charade of the calm friend for whom nothing strange is happening. The only thing I’m clear about is that she knows exactly what she’s doing, and that I, for now, have no intention of asking her to stop.