Watched It Three Times

It happens the way disasters always do: instantly, and at the worst possible angle. You'd filmed it late, alone, half-asleep and half-hard — phone propped on the nightstand, red light blinking, your hand working your cock in long, slow strokes while you whispered a name you had no business still whispering. Her name. Emilia. You meant to save it to the locked folder. Fat thumbs, dark room, one wrong tap. The text you send her is pure panic: *Wait! Emilia don't open that I didn't mean to send that to you!* Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Then: *oh* Then: *OH* Then nothing for four minutes, which is exactly how long the video runs, give or take. You're still lying there, sheets over your face, dying, when you hear the buzzer. Then the knock — her knock, the fast triple-rap she's used since you were together. You open the door in sweatpants and shame. Emilia stands in your hallway with her coat half-buttoned and her cheeks flushed like she ran here. She holds up her phone. "I watched it three times," she says. "We need to talk."

She pushes past you into the apartment like she still lives here — she did, once. She drops onto your couch, sets her phone face-down on the coffee table like it's evidence, and looks at you with an expression caught somewhere between a lawyer and a starving woman. "Say something," she says.

"I'm going to move to Portugal," you say. "Mm. Bold. Does Portugal know you moan my name when you come?" She's grinning now, but her eyes aren't. Her eyes are doing something else entirely. "Because I do now. I know that in hi-def."

You sit in the armchair across from her, which is a coward's move and you both know it. She kicks her shoes off and tucks her legs under herself, watching you like a cat that's decided the mouse is interesting.

"Walk me through it," she says. "The filming. Because you looked — and I say this with clinical objectivity — you looked like you'd done it before." "There's a folder," you admit.

Her eyebrows go up. "A folder. Plural?" "...Plural." "Wow." She picks her phone up, turns it over, turns it back. "So for how long have you been making little pornos starring my name?"

You tell her the truth, because lying to Emilia has never once worked. Since the breakup. Eight months of late nights and her name in your mouth and nobody's hands on you but yours. The delight drains out of her face. What's left is quieter, and scarier.

"Eight months," she repeats. "Emilia—" "No, shut up, I'm doing math." She presses her fingertips to her eyelids. "We broke up eight months ago. You've been — for the whole time? It's not a you-miss-sex thing, it's a you-miss-*me* thing?" "Yes," you say, because it is.

She gets up. Not to leave — she paces, two steps each way, the way she does when a decision is forming. Then she stops in front of your chair and looks down at you.

"I need to tell you something and you're not allowed to be weird about it." "Okay." "When I watched it the first time, it was an accident. The second time was — research." A pause. "The third time I put in headphones, locked my door, and you can guess the rest, and I am not proud of the *speed*, but I am proud of nothing tonight, so."

Your mouth goes dry. "Emilia." "Don't 'Emilia' me in the tone. You lost the right to the tone when I watched you say it while you—" she gestures at your general crotch area with her whole hand, "—*that*."

She kneels on the armchair, one knee on either side of your thighs, hovering, not touching. Her face is very close. She smells like her coat and cold air and underneath it, still, after everything, her. "Here's my question," she says softly. "In the video. When you said my name. Did you mean it?"

"Every time," you say. Her breath goes out of her, all at once, like you punched it loose. And then she kisses you — not gently, not carefully, the way you kiss someone you've been imagining kissing for eight months. Her hands frame your jaw. Her teeth catch your bottom lip.

"Eight months," she mutters against your mouth. "You idiot. I've had a vibrator with your name on it. Figuratively. I never actually labeled it, that would be insane."

You get a hand in her hair — soft, thick, exactly as remembered — and tilt her head back so you can get at her throat. She makes a sound that goes straight through you, low and surprised, like she'd forgotten you knew how to do that.

"Fuck," she says. "Fuck, okay, hi, hello, I forgot your mouth was a *problem*." "Missed this," you say into the spot below her ear. "Missed — yeah, obviously, we established, you made a *documentary* about it—"

She rolls her hips down against you and feels exactly how not-unaffected you are, and her whole face changes. Smug. Predatory. She sits back on your thighs and pulls her shirt over her head in one motion, and she's not wearing anything under it. "You should know," she says, reaching behind her to unclasp nothing because there's nothing to unclasp, "I got dressed in about eleven seconds tonight. Didn't really curate the lingerie situation." "Noted," you say, hands already going to her waist, up her ribs, to her breasts. "Extremely noted."

You take your time with her breasts, because you've thought about it every single time you watched that folder and now it's real — her nipple hardening against your tongue, her fingers threading into your hair, her back arching to push more of herself into your mouth. "There it is," she breathes. "There's the — okay, yeah, that's — you used to do this for *hours*, I remember, I remember—" "Still can." "Prove it," she says, and it comes out wrecked.

She proves it right back — sliding down off the chair to kneel between your legs, dragging your sweatpants down with her. Your cock springs free, already leaking, and she looks at it, then up at you, with an expression of genuine grievance.

"I hate that it's still this pretty," she says. "Eight months and it's just been *walking around*." She licks a slow stripe up the underside and your head drops back.

She takes you into her mouth hot and wet and unhurried, one hand wrapped around the base, working what doesn't fit, and she moans around you like it's her own pleasure — and the vibration plus the sound plus *Emilia*, her, again, finally, has you gripping the armrests.

"Em — I'm not gonna last if you—" She pulls off with an obscene pop, keeps stroking. "You lasted three minutes in the video. I checked the timestamp. I want better than the folder version." She sucks you back down, deeper, and looks up at you the whole time, and you understand she is going to ruin your life and you're going to let her.

You pull her up before you embarrass yourself against the timestamp. She strips the rest off, you strip the rest off, and then she's pushing you back onto the couch cushions and climbing on top, guiding your cock to her entrance, sinking down onto you in one slow, endless motion that makes you both groan at the same time.

She braces her hands on your chest and holds still, full of you, eyes closed. "Say you missed this," she whispers. "Emilia. I missed everything."

Then she moves, and every smart thing about her turns filthy. She rides you in a rolling rhythm that drags her clit against you on every stroke, talking the entire time, because of course she is.

"That's it — right there — God, your cock, I *dreamed* about your cock, that's so stupid, who dreams about an *ex's* — don't stop — harder, I'm not porcelain—" You grip her hips and drive up into her, and the talk dissolves into your name, over and over, the way it sounded on the video except real and ragged and right against your ear.

She comes first — you feel it, the sudden clamp of her pussy around you, her whole body shuddering, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as she sobs out something that's mostly vowels. You follow two strokes later, buried deep, her name in your teeth, and she holds you through all of it, clenching around you like she's keeping you.

For a while after, nobody moves. Her breath slows against your neck. "So," she says finally. "Fun fact. I never actually stopped being in love with you. I just filed it badly."

Later, tangled in your sheets with the lamp off, she props herself up on one elbow and looks at you with suspiciously bright eyes. "Delete the folder," she says. "What? No—" "Delete it, because from now on you don't need it. You want me moaning your name, I'm a text away. Actually, do keep one." She snuggles into your shoulder. "Keep one. For science. I want to watch it *with* you next time and provide director's commentary."

You wake up before her, which almost never happens, and lie there watching the morning put light across her shoulder and her ridiculous hair and the small, satisfied smile she wears even asleep. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. It's from her, sent at 3 a.m., to you, lying one foot away: *for the record I'm keeping you. this is not a question. also I'm deleting YOUR copy of the video but MINE stays. I'm the archivist now.* You look over at her. She's awake. She's been watching you read it. "I'm making coffee," she says, stealing the sheet. "And then round two. In that order. Don't argue with the archivist."