Run-In With An Old Friend

She climbs the wooden steps like they belong to her. Sun-bleached wood, ocean breeze, and then there she is—Cosima Knight. Four years and she still moves the same way, hips low, shoulders loose. My stomach tightens. We fall into each other the way old friends do when the friendship always had teeth. She blushes when I say the word unforgettable, but her eyes stay hungry. She tells me she has nowhere to be except wherever I am. So we drive back with the windows down and her hand already on my thigh. Inside my place the air feels thick. Cosima strips without being asked, the same shy smile from high school mixed with something newer, sharper. She hasn’t touched another woman since me, she whispers, like she’s handing me a secret. I set the laptop on the dresser, angle the lens, hit record. The red light blinks once. We meet on the bed already naked, already wet. Her mouth finds mine like muscle memory. She tastes like salt and ChapStick and the years we lost. I spread her thighs and she opens for me without hesitation, back arching, breath catching when my fingers slide inside. She moans my name like it still belongs to her. I fuck her slow at first, then deeper, the wet sounds loud enough to catch on the mic. She comes once with my tongue on her clit and again with three fingers buried to the knuckle, hips jerking, nails digging into my shoulders. When she flips me over and returns the favor, her tongue knows exactly where I’m weakest. The laptop keeps rolling. Sweat, laughter, the slap of skin. By the time we collapse, the sheets are wrecked and the camera has everything: two bodies that never forgot how to wreck each other.