They had not seen each other in three years — not since the messy breakup, the packed boxes, the tearful last fuck in the apartment they shared. But here they were at the same bar, older, more muscular, and the chemistry hit them both like a freight train. They barely made it through his front door before clothes started flying. Hands remembered familiar territory — the sensitive spot behind his ear, the way he gasps when you bite his collarbone, the exact grip that makes his cock pulse. They crashed onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths, grinding against each other with the desperate urgency of men making up for lost time. No condom. They never used them with each other and tonight was no different. He pushed inside raw and they both moaned at the familiar sensation, muscle memory guiding his hips into the rhythm they had perfected over two years of fucking. It was like coming home — every angle remembered, every sweet spot catalogued, their bodies fitting together with practiced precision. But three years of pent-up desire added a raw intensity that surprised them both. He fucked harder than he used to, deeper, more possessive, and his ex wrapped those thighs around him and pulled him closer with every thrust. They came together, just like they always did, and lay tangled in the aftermath wondering why they ever stopped.
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