My Girlfriend Was Alone

The leather of the journal is cool and smooth under my palms. It’s late. The kind of late where the world outside my window has gone quiet, save for the occasional sigh of a car on wet pavement. This lamp casts a warm, guilty pool of light, and my pen feels like the only thing tethering me to this planet. I have to write this down. If I don’t, I think the memory might burn a hole through me. It’s not just a story; it’s an echo in my bones, a hum under my skin. Last night. God, last night.

It started with the rain. A sudden, summer downpour that caught us by surprise, laughing and stumbling out of a cab, the warm drops fat and heavy. We ran for the apartment door, hands linked, her shriek of laughter cutting through the city’s damp murmur. By the time the elevator doors sighed shut on us, we were breathless and dripping. The small space was suddenly charged, filled with the smell of wet concrete, her perfume—something with jasmine and night-blooming flowers—and the simple, clean scent of rain on her skin.

Water droplets clung to the ends of her dark hair, beaded on the bare skin of her shoulders where her dress straps had slipped. A single drop traced a path from her temple, down the curve of her cheek, along the line of her jaw. I watched it, mesmerized, my own breath catching in my throat. It was just a drop of water. But on her, it was everything.

I didn’t say a word. I just reached out, my thumb following the path the droplet had taken, catching it before it could fall. Her skin was cool and slick from the rain, but underneath, a furnace warmth pulsed. Her laughter died in her throat. Her eyes, dark and wide, locked on mine. The elevator hummed, climbing. The world was just this box, this moment, this suspended breath.

My thumb lingered on her jawline. I felt the delicate shift of it as she swallowed. Her lips, glossy and slightly parted, were an invitation I’d accepted a thousand times before, but it felt brand new every single time. I leaned in, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She never does. She met me halfway.

The kiss tasted like rain and the faint, sweet ghost of the wine we’d shared. It was soft at first, a reacquaintance. Then her hands came up, her fingers tangling in my wet hair, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepened into something hungry, something that spoke of a wanting that had been simmering all evening, all week, maybe forever. The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open on our floor, and we broke apart, breathless, stupid grins on our faces. We practically fell into the hallway, fumbling for keys, still attached at the mouth, at the hands, at the hips.

The apartment door clicked shut behind us, and the familiar world of our home—the worn rug, the stack of books by the sofa, the faint smell of last night’s dinner—slammed into the electric strangeness of the moment. It was ours, this space. But tonight, it felt different. It felt like a stage.

She leaned back against the door, her chest rising and falling. Water darkened the fabric of her dress, making it cling to every curve I knew so well, and yet… I was seeing them for the first time. The way the light from the kitchen caught the hollow of her throat. The way her wet hair stuck to her neck. I took a step forward, crowding her, bracing a hand on the door by her head.

“You’re soaked,” I murmured, my voice rough, unfamiliar.

A slow smile touched her lips. “You’re one to talk.”

My gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “We should get you out of these wet clothes.”

It was a line. A cheesy, ridiculous line from a bad movie. But here, now, with her, it was the only truth in the universe. She held my gaze, her own playful and challenging. “Is that right?”

I nodded, my nose brushing against hers. “It’s the practical thing to do.”

I dipped my head and kissed her again, but this was different from the elevator. This was not a prelude. This was a claiming. My hands went to the zipper at the back of her dress, the metal cool against my fingertips. I tugged it down slowly, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet hallway. The dress loosened. I broke the kiss to look at her, to watch.

I pushed the straps from her shoulders. The damp fabric slid down her body with a whisper, pooling at her feet on the scuffed hardwood floor. She stood there in just her lace underwear, pale and glorious in the half-light, shivering slightly. Not from the cold. I knew the difference. Her skin was pebbled with goosebumps. The scent of her, of jasmine and rain and her own unique, intoxicating warmth, flooded my senses. I just stared. I think I’ll always stare.

“You’re beautiful,” I said, the words inadequate, a tiny boat on a vast ocean of what I was feeling.

She didn’t reply. She just reached for the hem of my shirt, her fingers brushing against the skin of my stomach, and a jolt of pure electricity shot through me. I helped her pull it over my head, tossing it aside. Then her hands were on my belt buckle, fumbling with the familiarity of a thousand repetitions, but her fingers trembled just slightly. That tiny tremor undid me more than any skilled seduction ever could. It was real. This was real.

We left a trail of clothes from the door to the bedroom—my jeans, her bra, a path of abandon. The rain picked up again, tapping a gentle, frantic rhythm against the windowpane. We didn’t turn on the light. The grey, diffuse glow from the streetlights outside was enough. It sculpted her in shadows and silver.

We fell onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths. The sheets were cool against our heated skin. This part is always a blur of sensation—the taste of her skin, salt and sweetness at the curve of her neck. The sound of her breath catching when my hand slid up her thigh. The feel of her nails scraping lightly down my back. The smell of us, of sex and sweat and that damn jasmine perfume, beginning to bloom in the room.

But last night… last night I wanted to slow it down. I wanted to map her. I wanted to remember every sigh, every tremor.

I rolled onto my side, propping my head on my hand, and just looked at her. She turned to face me, a question in her eyes. I didn’t answer with words. I answered with my fingertips.

I started at her forehead, tracing the line of her eyebrow, the bridge of her nose. She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the sensation. My touch was feather-light, a whisper. I traced the shell of her ear, the stubborn set of her jaw. I followed the elegant line of her collarbone, feeling the delicate architecture of her beneath my fingers. I brushed over the swell of her breast, circling but not touching her nipple, which was already taut and begging for attention. A soft, frustrated whimper escaped her lips, and I smiled.

“Patience,” I whispered, my voice husky.

My hand continued its journey, down the plane of her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver under my touch. I dipped into her navel, and she giggled, a sudden, bright sound in the tense, quiet room. The sound was a gift. I kissed her shoulder, my lips following the same path my fingers had taken.

I was learning her all over again. This wasn’t just my girlfriend. This was a universe of responses and secrets. The little mole just above her hip bone. The way she arched her back when I finally, finally cupped her breast and flicked my thumb over her nipple. The way she whispered my name, not a cry, but a sigh, like it was a secret she was confessing.

I moved down her body, kissing my way down her sternum, her stomach. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her last remaining piece of clothing and looked up at her. Her eyes were open now, dark pools of want, watching me. I pulled them down slowly, and she lifted her hips to help me. I tossed them aside. She was completely bare before me, open and trusting and so fucking beautiful it hurt to look at her.

I settled between her legs, kissing the inside of her thigh. Her skin was impossibly soft there. She jumped at the contact, a gasp escaping her. I held her thigh firm, kissing again, nipping gently. Her scent was stronger here, musky and primal and entirely her. It was the most familiar scent in the world to me, and it still made my head spin.

I looked up her body, meeting her gaze. I wanted her to see me. I wanted to see her. And then I lowered my mouth to her.

The first touch of my tongue made her cry out, a sharp, broken sound that was swallowed by the rain. Her hands flew to my hair, not pushing, just holding on, anchoring herself. I loved her like this, with my mouth, with my tongue, with a devotion that felt religious. I learned the rhythm that made her hips buck, the spot that made her thighs tighten around my ears, the slow, circular pressure that made her moan long and low.

Her sounds were a language I was fluent in. The quick, shallow pants. The broken pleas of “please… oh god, please…” The way my name became a mantra on her lips. I felt her body begin to coil, tightening like a spring. Her fingers tightened in my hair. I doubled my efforts, focusing on that one perfect, swollen spot, drinking in her taste, her sounds, her essence.

“I’m… I’m gonna…” she choked out, a warning and a prayer.

I didn’t let up. I held her there, on that precipice, for one endless second before letting her fall.

Her orgasm crashed through her, a silent, breathless scream for a heartbeat before the sound followed. It was a raw, unfiltered cry that seemed to be torn from the very core of her. Her body bowed off the bed, back arched, a perfect tense arc of pleasure before she collapsed, trembling, back onto the sheets. Waves of aftershocks rolled through her, and I gentled my touch, coaxing her through it until she was soft and pliant beneath me, her hands falling away from my hair to lie limp at her sides.

I crawled back up her body, kissing my way up her stomach, between her breasts, her neck, until I found her mouth. She kissed me lazily, deeply, tasting herself on my lips. Her eyes were hazy, unfocused.

“You,” she breathed against my mouth, “are incredible.”

I smiled, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “I know.”

She laughed, a weak, spent sound, and swatted my arm. “And so humble.”

But the look in her eyes was anything but joking. It was deep, bottomless affection. It was love, shining through the aftermath of pure physical abandon. It was everything.

I settled over her, my weight on my elbows. The tip of my cock, hard and aching, pressed against her heat. She was so wet, so ready. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, an unspoken demand. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a new, deeper urgency.

I looked into her eyes. This was the part that always got me. The moment before. The suspended animation where the entire world is just two people, two hearts beating too fast, two sets of eyes trying to say everything words can’t possibly hold.

“I love you,” I said. It wasn’t a line. It was the reason for everything.

Her eyes softened. “I love you more.”

I pushed inside her.

It was a feeling I will never, ever get used to. That first, perfect, breathtaking slide. The way her body welcomed mine, tight and hot and familiar. The way her eyes fluttered shut for a second, her lips parting on a silent oh. We both went still, fully joined, just feeling it. The absolute rightness of it.

I began to move. Slowly at first, a long, deep, rocking rhythm that was less about friction and more about connection. Our foreheads were touching. Our breath mingled. I could feel every tiny contraction of her muscles around me. I could see every flicker of emotion on her face—the pleasure, the tenderness, the building need.

This was fucking, yeah. But it was also… communion.

Her hands came up to cradle my face. She was looking right into me, seeing all the messy, flawed, desperate parts of me, and she wasn’t looking away. She was pulling me closer.

The pace quickened. The slow, deep rocks became harder thrusts. The quiet sounds of our breathing became ragged gasps. The tenderness began to fracture into something more raw, more primal. My thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming needier, harder. Her nails dug into my shoulders. She met each thrust with a roll of her hips, taking me deeper, demanding more.

“Right there,” she chanted, her voice a broken whisper. “Oh god, right there. Don’t stop.”

I wasn’t going to stop. I couldn’t have if I tried. The world narrowed to this point, to the feeling of her around me, beneath me. The smell of sex was thick in the air. The sound of our bodies meeting, skin slapping against slick skin, was a brutal, honest music underscored by our gasps and the relentless beat of the rain.

I felt my own climax building, a tight coil of heat low in my stomach. I was close. So close. But I needed her to come with me. I needed to feel her shatter around me.

I shifted slightly, changing the angle, and drove into her, hard. Her eyes flew open, wide with shock and a new, sharper pleasure.

“Yes!” she cried out, the word ripped from her throat. “Like that! Fuck, yes!”

That was it. That was the key. I held that angle, pounding into her with a single-minded intensity that bordered on violence, but her eyes never left mine. They were glazed with pleasure, locked on me, trusting me completely even as I took us both to the edge.

I saw the exact moment it started for her. Her eyes lost focus. Her mouth fell open. A tremor started deep within her, and then she was coming, her orgasm seizing her, milking me, pulling my own release from me with the force of a tidal wave.

My name was a scream on her lips, and I was following her over, my own cry joining hers as I emptied myself into her, pulse after pulse of blinding, white-hot pleasure that wiped out every thought, every worry, everything that wasn’t her. It was a freefall. It was an annihilation. It was perfect.

I collapsed on top of her, spent, my heart hammering against her ribs, our sweat-slick skin sticking together. We were a mess of tangled limbs and ragged breath. We didn’t speak. We just breathed. In the silence, the sound of the rain was gentle again, a soft hush against the window.

After a long time, I rolled off her, pulling her with me so she was curled against my side, her head on my chest. My arm was around her, holding her close. I could feel her heart gradually slowing to match the steady, solid beat of my own.

I kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of rain and sex and her.

We lay like that for what felt like an eternity, just breathing each other in. The heat of our bodies under the rumpled sheets. The slow return to ourselves. There were no words. None were needed. The silence was its own language, and we were both fluent.

Eventually, her breathing evened out into the deep, slow rhythm of sleep. I stayed awake, holding her, listening to the rain finally stop. I looked down at her face, relaxed and peaceful in sleep, her lips slightly parted. In that moment, I felt a surge of something so powerful it was almost terrifying. It was more than lust, more than love. It was a sense of rightness, of home. This woman, in my arms, was my entire universe.

This is what they never tell you about. Not really. The books and the movies, they show you the heat, the passion, the fucking. And that’s there. God, is it there. But they don’t show you this. The quiet aftermath. The profound peace of lying next to someone who has seen you completely raw, who has heard you make sounds you didn’t know you could make, and who looks at you afterward not with judgment, but with a love so deep it feels like a fact of nature. Like gravity.

This is the secret. The fucking is incredible. But the alone part? The part that comes after, when it’s just the two of you in the dark, breathing together? That’s everything.

My pen is running out of ink. The lamp light is starting to feel harsh. The memory is safely trapped here now, on these pages. It feels less like a burning secret and more like a cherished one. A thing I can keep, and revisit on other lonely nights.

I can hear her stirring in the bedroom now. A soft, sleepy murmur. My cue to come back to bed. To slide in beside her and hold her while she dreams.

This is where the story ends. And where it begins again, every day.