I don’t blog very often (as you might have seen) so I thought I would post some flash fiction for you to (hopefully) enjoy.

It ended up exactly like it always did.

“Why don’t we go to that new pub?” she said when he called up to see if she was busy. “I’ve heard it’s nice and apparently has a ridiculous amount of good-looking men for me to ogle.”

“What about me? What if I want some ogling action?”

She tutted. “You shouldn’t be looking. You have a girlfriend. Actually, why aren’t you with her tonight?”

“She’s away for the weekend. Her sister’s getting married.”

“And you’re not with her, why?”

“Come on, you know how I feel about weddings.” He spat the last word and probably shuddered too.

She laughed, amused at his disgust. “God, you are just so stereotypical sometimes. So, the pub then?”

“Ugh,” he groaned. “No. I just want a quiet night in with my best girl.”

She was such a sucker for him whenever he called her that, so she agreed.

A quiet night in front of the telly with a takeaway and a bottle of wine—that’s all she planned for, honest—but he kissed her when she opened the door for him. Just a kiss on the cheek, one of his hands cupped around her shoulder and the other braced on her hip, the bottle of wine he was holding cold against her leg. A peck of a kiss as the door shut behind him, but the smell of him overwhelmed her—his usual expensive aftershave, a hint of the one cigarette a day he allowed himself after work, and the unique scent of his own skin. So familiar. She breathed it in and her breath hitched, a twang of arousal reverberating through her belly. He stilled, just for a moment, before his head turned and his next kiss found her lips.

The bottle of wine thunked to the carpeted floor. She didn’t even look to see if it survived its fall intact—she didn’t care. All she cared about was getting their clothes off as quickly as possibly. Hands tearing at each other, they barely made it down the hall to her bedroom to tumble naked onto her bed, his cock already halfway inside her.

They fucked hard and fast, and it was perfect. It was always perfect. They had been screwing around with each other since they had both turned legal, knew each other’s bodies, all their secret sensitive places as well as they knew their own. When she had wanted to learn how to give a good blowjob, it was him she had practised on. When he had wanted to try out anal, they had gotten tipsy on gin and tonics, their drink du jour, and he had played with her pussy until she hadn’t cared where he put his cock as long as it was inside her, and they had both come screaming. To this day, he was the only one she trusted to fuck her that way.

“Why aren’t the two of you together?” her other friends always asked her. They didn’t know they were sleeping together, but they had seen their closeness.

Why not indeed? She always said something along the lines of, “Oh, we’re just close friends. Almost like family.” Except they weren’t. They weren’t brother and sister, and they weren’t just friends. Honestly, she didn’t know what they were and she found herself spending more and more time thinking about it.

She had her boyfriends. He had his girlfriends. And whenever they felt like it, they had each other. They felt like it often.

“Who am I to you?”

The question slipped past her lips as they lay entwined and sweaty on her rumpled sheets.

Lifting his head, he looked down at her. Flushed and beautiful, he wore the face of the man she often dreamed of sharing her life with in every way, not just in a friendship made strange by stolen moments of furtive fucking.

She held her breath as she waited for his answer.

“You’re my best girl,” he murmured, a light she didn’t quite recognise shining from his eyes. “You’re my Annie.”

Her breath released on a sigh and was immediately stolen by his kiss. This time they made love, long and slow, surging together with not a wisp of air between them until they both reached their peak in shuddering gasps.

He left not long after, pressing a kiss to her forehead and leaving her heavy-eyed with sleepy satiation. She watched him go, listened to the front door closing behind him. She didn’t fall asleep.

Now, lying in the bed she’d made, she thought of the girlfriend, celebrating her sister’s wedding, maybe missing him and wondering what he was doing on his Friday night. Guilt tried to slink into bed with her, but she pushed it away—she’d had him first.

Turning her head, she breathed in deeply, drawing in the smell of expensive aftershave, cigarettes, and him that clung to her sheets. It occurred to her that it didn’t feel quite like home unless his scent was on her pillow.