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“I forgive you,” I say. As soon as the words are out of my lips, he slams his whole weight into me, plunging into me until he’s completely sheathed. I scream and fist the bed sheets on either side of my body. He slides almost all the way out and then slams into me again. The bed skids across the floor a little, creaking and groaning at the force of his movements.
“Harder.” My voice is breathless, my breathing labored.
He does it again – a third and fourth time and then his body stills.
“What?” Not another apology. I want him to fuck me until I can’t think, not confess all his deepest secrets.
“Condom. I forgot.”
We’re so used to not using anything with each other now. It hadn’t crossed my mind. He starts to pull out again.
“No. I don’t care.”
He frowns.
“Have you been using condoms with everyone else?”
“I’ve never done it without a condom with anyone but you,” he answers.
“Same.”
He doesn’t move – to continue or pull out.
“It’s not like you’re going to get me pregnant,” I mutter. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Now, please, stop talking and fuck me.”
“Until you can’t remember your own name?” he grins.
“Yes.”
He smiles and says, “Be careful what you ask for” before he slams into me again. The force is so great, I slide away from him on the bed. He grasps me behind my thighs and drags me back to the edge. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he slams into me again and again until I forget everything – where I am, who I am, and all of my problems – even my own name.
We barely leave the bed the entire weekend, only emerging long enough to eat the takeout we order. The intrusive thoughts have quieted. The aching dulled. I sleep in his arms – the first real sleep I’ve had in weeks. At one point while we are cuddling, he runs his hands over my ribs and my hip bones protruding from my body and says softly, “Maggie, you’ve got to start eating more.”
I rest my cheek on his chest and listen to his heart beating for a moment and then say, “I’m not doing this on purpose.”
“I know.” He pulls me closer. “I’m worried though.”
I don’t answer, and he doesn’t push it any further.
On Sunday evening, I wrap a robe around my waist and start to look for my clothes.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting dressed.” I bend over and look under the bed.
He frowns. “Why?”
I let out a laugh. “Because I have work tomorrow. Work – have you heard of it? I know you aren’t familiar with the concept, but...”
He grabs my arm. “Just sleep here tonight.”
I freeze. I haven’t allowed myself to think about what he was trying to tell me about his jealousy earlier. I haven’t thought about what it might mean if we weren’t just friends. I know he doesn’t want a relationship. I’ve known that for years. What does it matter if there’s feelings involved?
Only it matters a lot if we want to stay friends. We can’t have it both ways which is why this has to be a one-time thing.
