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He reaches for my hand and then strides down the hallway, pulling me with him towards the glossy white door at the far end of the house. When he reaches it, he twists the knob and pushes it open, stepping into the room and guiding me with him.

I look around the room, trying to keep my expression neutral as I take everything in. Like the living room, it’s oversized for what’s really needed by anybody as a bedroom. It’s decorated nicely in a way that screams there’s been no feminine influence involved. The king-sized bed is made of a dark mahogany stained wood. It’s a four-poster style with a headboard and baseboard with thick cutouts in the wood. The bedcovers are an emerald green, one of the only splashes of colour in the room. The rest of the furniture blends in with the bed, and the carpet is a thick cream. There’s a door that appears to lead to a separate dressing room, and I’m fairly sure if I were to walk through, I’d find a door that led to an en suite. It’s the type of bedroom I can only ever dream about.

I let go of his hand and walk around, getting a better look at everything. There are tall lamps on both bedside tables. On one of the tables is a stack of books, one left open, clearly partly read.

It’s as I turn to look at him again that I see it. A frame hanging on the wall. Inside is a sketch. One I know all too well, because I’m the one who made it.

I whirl around to look at him properly, registering that he’s now in the bedroom, walking towards me. He stops in front of me, cupping my face in his hands as he runs his thumbs across my cheeks.

“I have hung that in every bedroom I’ve called my own,” he murmurs. “You were always there.”

I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to answer or whether he thinks he’s found an answer in my eyes, but after a moment of pure silence between us—one I swear I don’t even breathe through—he lets out an exhale and then pulls me closer to him.

I thought it was going to be harder to get him to work out the path I wanted to take. I thought he might tell me it was a bad idea. I thought I might even reconsider if it was a good idea or not, but the second his lips meet mine, there’s not a single possibility that this can be stopped. His kisses make me feel like every inch of my skin is ablaze, like I’m backlit by the blue flame.

“Oh, Jesus,” I manage to pant between kisses.

I forgot how well he kissed, or rather, I had put it in the memory box that I refused to delve into for fear of fracturing my heart. Our first kiss had been on non-prom night, and it concluded with me losing my virginity to him in his bedroom, which was the first night we slept in the same bed together.

I know this kiss will end the same way. We’ll be in his bed. And I’ll wake up in the morning, feeling like things have changed.

“God, Dee,” he growls and sounds positively feral.

“Don’t stop. I know this is crazy. It’s as crazy as it’s always been between us. But I don’t care. I want this.”

He doesn’t need any further persuasion. He takes a couple of steps, holding me in a way that I move easily with him, stepping backwards until I run into one of the posts of his bed.

My hands fall to his belt, fumbling to undo the buckle, but he pulls it away.

“Relax. We don’t need to rush. Let me.” He almost sounds like he’s pleading, so I give him a small nod.

He gives me a slower kiss, one that has me gasping with want, before he peppers kisses across my face and down my throat. I arch my body slightly against the bedpost, and he kisses along my collarbone as his hands wander up my body. He cups my breasts, thumbs skimming across my nipples, earning him an undignified moan. His hands continue to roam over my body until they reach what he seems to be searching for—the zipper of my dress.

He pulls away slightly so he can look at me properly, holding my gaze as he inches the zip down. For a second, I can’t think properly, and everything in my head feels like a muddle. Through the hazy thoughts, I try to remember what underwear I put on this morning. It wasn’t like I imagined I could possibly end up in this situation, but I’m sure there was something far fancier that I could have selected.

Peach lace, I think to myself. I’m grateful I at least put a matching set on. I know it’s not a seductive set nor anything erotic, but the way Joseph holds my gaze as he pulls the zip down suddenly makes the fleeting panic irrelevant. He doesn’t look like he cares about what underwear I could have on. He doesn’t even look like he’s going to register them at all.

Once the zipper is down, he keeps his gaze on me as he slips both straps of the dress from my shoulders. Left first, then right. His eyes don’t move from my face as the fabric slides down my body and pools onto the floor.

This is the longest I’ve ever held eye contact with somebody. I count in my head, wondering when he’s going to break it or when I’m going to feel uncomfortable and look away. I get to ten and am about to move from under his gaze when he raises one of his hands again, touching my cheek and applying a small amount of pressure to keep me in the same position. It’s a silent command to keep looking at him. I give a small nod of acceptance, and he drops his hand, trailing it down my arm and chest. He rubs my nipple through the lace of my bra. My mouth forms a silent “Oh,” and he still holds my gaze as his other hand travels up my thigh. There’s no smirk on his face, but I can tell he’s enjoying this. His hand travels across my hipbone, fingers trailing across my stomach and then stopping in the centre of my body before changing direction and heading back down.

He maintains eye contact as he repositions his hand, giving him easier access to cup me under the lace of my underwear. One thumb and finger still massage against my nipple, but now the sensation is doubled by the finger he strokes across my clit. The sensations are exquisite, but it’s the way he’s looking at me—the fierceness in his eyes, the way he doesn’t break eye contact with me—that’s making my skin heat and my blood rush through my body.

I’ve had lovers since him and enjoyed good sex, even if the person was a shitty boyfriend. But this right now, it’s making me feel stripped bare, like I’m down to my nerve endings and my very soul is on display.

Fingers continue to move against me, getting a little more daring. A sharp pinch and slight twist of my nipple. When I raise one of my legs and rest my foot on the baseboard, two of his fingers find their route into my pussy, his thumb continuing to stroke and rub against my clit as the fingers ease gently in and out, keeping up a steady rhythm.

He carries on watching me. I don’t dare look away, but I do dare to show him how much I’m enjoying what he’s doing. I gasp and moan. I tell him I want more. I beg for more, demand it. I move my hips and let myself grind against his hand. When he swaps hands and raises the one that had been exploring my pussy to my mouth, I suck his fingers, tasting my arousal. I keep my gaze locked with his as I demand he carry on. I gasp when he does. And when I reach the point of no return, I fight the instinct to squeeze my eyes shut. Instead, they’re wide open and I’m staring at him as I climax. He keeps circling my clit with one thumb and gently stroking my nipple with the other as my pants subside and the waves of pleasure in my body reach a plateau.

“I’ve always loved watching you come,” he murmurs.

“That was intense,” I whisper.

“That was just the beginning.”

Joseph moves his hands from me briefly before repositioning so he can scoop me up. He carries me around to the side of his bed, placing me down on the mattress. Then he reaches behind me and unclips my bra before pulling my panties down my legs.

He stares at my naked body, and for a second, I feel self-conscious. It’s been twelve years. I know I look different. I wonder if he’s thinking back to how we were then, comparing me and finding this version of me a disappointment. I’m curvier than I used to be, mostly because I actually get to eat properly these days.