Addictive - Sex Stories

Addictive

... watching him drink tea out of the tiny little china cups in my kitchen. He’d broken the cups. He dropped them all on the floor. I hated him for it. But the anger didn’t last. I liked the way he made me laugh, the way he wouldn’t give up on trying to cheer me up after a bad day, the way he looked when he was asleep. I thought of him with some other girl, someone who he’d fuck like he’d fucked me. It made me feel sick. And I knew I’d never find anyone else like him again. I’d probably rebound onto one of those awful, pretentious guys at work, someone who’d be perfect in all the right ways, someone who’d want to get married and have a clichéd suburban life. I sat there on the windowsill, thinking about him and the cryptic tattoos that he’d never finished explaining to me. I thought of how he never got up before midday and how he never even considered tidying his flat. I remembered his fingers tangled in my hair, the way his eyes held such control. I thought of how I trusted him, how I was sure that we were in love, how we got each other, how open I felt with him. It’d never happen again. Not with anyone else. It couldn’t. It was just him. Him and his jibes at my dad, him and his black coffee and overflowing ashtrays and the way… The doorbell rang. I snapped out of my thoughts. Don’t think about him. It’s over. This is what heartbreak feels like; this is what people deal with. Get over him. I pulled open the door and felt ...

... the cold wind rush in. “Hi.” He stood there on the doorstep, unashamed smile on his face, his hair sprinkled with snowflakes. “Hi.” We stood there, neither of us saying anything. “Let’s not fight again,” he said, finally. “We should maybe try to control our tempers.” I looked past him, at the snow falling soft and silent, covering the road and trees. “Hey.” His hand came out and caught my chin. “I’ve missed you. I can change. I swear. I’ll be anything you want. You wanna get married? We’ll do it. We’ll do everything. I’ll even be nice to your parents. Please.” I shook my head, my eyes finally settling on his face. He frowned at me. “What? You want me to go? C’mon, baby. You don’t mean that.” I gazed at him levelly. “You broke my cups. And my TV. And my window.” He tried not to smile. “I’m sorry.” “Me too.” Hope hung between us for a moment. I knew we’d fall into the same cycle and yet I told myself it’d be okay. We’d be okay. “I’m fucking freezing,” he said. I stepped aside and he came through the door, shutting it quietly behind him. “Nobody makes me feel like you do,” he said softly, and his eyes met mine, bare and honest. “Then I guess we’re stuck with each other,” I murmured. He dropped his head to kiss me, cold lips and warm tongue and it felt romantic, not at all like I was used to with him. Maybe it would be different. Maybe we’d make it work. He felt right and as long as he wanted me, I wanted him just as much.