An unexpected encounter in New York

The first time I saw Leo in seven years, he was standing at JFK’s baggage claim, scrolling through his phone with that same distracted frown he used to wear in high school. The same sharp jawline, the same broad shoulders that had once carried me to his childhood bed—where we fumbled through my first time with all the grace of two teenagers who had only ever read about sex in stolen magazines.

I hadn’t planned on speaking to him. But then he looked up.

“Kika?”

His voice was deeper now, rougher at the edges. The kind of voice that belonged to a man who had learned how to use it.

“Leo,” I said, tilting my head. “Still losing luggage, I see.”

He laughed, and just like that, the years collapsed between us.

We ended up at a dimly lit bar near Terminal 4, swapping stories over whiskey that burned just right. He was a financial analyst now, married with two kids—his wife and children were in Wisconsin visiting family, he mentioned, almost absently. I told him about the Emirates, the way the desert heat felt at midnight, the way first-class passengers sometimes looked at me like I was part of the in-flight service.

“Some things never change,” he said, swirling his drink. “You always did drive guys crazy.”

I smirked. “Including you?”

“Especially me.” His thumb traced the rim of his glass. “Christ, we were terrible back then.”

I burst out laughing. “You lasted two minutes.”

“And you screamed when I touched your clit.”

“Because you rubbed it like you were polishing a fucking trophy.”

The air between us crackled—not with nostalgia, but something sharper. Hungrier. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, to where my crossed legs strained the slit of my dress.

“We could fix that,” he said quietly.

I sipped my drink, letting the silence stretch. “Prove it.”

His apartment was all sleek lines and muted grays, the kind of place that smelled like money and restraint. The second the door shut, his hands were on me, pressing me against the wall with a confidence that hadn’t existed seven years ago.

“Still talkative?” he murmured, his lips grazing my neck.

I arched into him. “Still quick?”

He answered by spinning me around, yanking the zipper of my dress down in one smooth motion. The fabric pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but lace and defiance. His breath hitched.

“Fuck, Kika.”

I turned to face him, trailing a finger down his chest. “Show me what you learned.”

What followed was nothing like our clumsy teenage groping. This was precision—his mouth hot and wicked between my thighs, his fingers curling inside me just so, until I came with a gasp, my nails raking his shoulders. He didn’t stop there. He flipped me onto my stomach, dragging me up onto my knees, his grip firm on my hips.

“Still think I’m rushing?” he growled, sliding into me from behind.

The mirror across the bedroom reflected it all—the way my back arched, the way his muscles tensed with every thrust, the way my lips parted around moans I couldn’t stifle. He’d learned. God, had he learned. His pace was relentless, each stroke deeper, each grind of his hips calculated to wring another broken sound from me.

“Look at you,” he muttered, one hand fisting in my hair. “Taking it so fucking good.”

I came again, trembling, and felt him pulse inside me as he followed, his groan muffled against my shoulder.

Later, sprawled across his ridiculously expensive sheets, I traced the tattoo on his forearm—a detail I hadn’t noticed before.

“Wife know you’re this good?” I teased.

He caught my wrist, pressing a kiss to my palm. “She’s in Wisconsin.”

I laughed, but the look in his eyes silenced me. Not guilt. Not regret. Just hunger, simmering under the surface.

“Stay,” he said.

And I did.