Time slows to a crawl and then might stop entirely.

We pause, a few inches apart—close enough for her breath to caress my lips but far enough for our gazes to braid. Buried somewhere in the depths of her eyes are the same worries I have: we said we wouldn't, we're not supposed to, our desires aren't compatible. Are you sure you want this? Are you sure you want this? Are you sure you want me?

Infinities pass. Then Joe tugs, the slightest pull that I feel only in the brush of my shirt against my chest, but it's all I need to slot my mouth with hers again.

The itch under my skin is soothed with the first glide of her lips over mine.

The fog I've inhaled into my brain whips to the periphery, forming a tunnel through which I can focus only on Joe's mouth, Joe's hand tangled in my shirt, Joe's knees pressing into my waist. Has it been so long that I've forgotten what kissing feels like or has it just never felt quite this good before?

What? No, that's the weed. This is the best weed I've ever blazed. And I've smoked a lot of weed.

Just as I manage to clump together some vague thought about how this ain't a good idea, Joe's tongue brushes mine and I fling whatever semblance of self-preservation my high and drunk brain can scrape up off the cliff. Trolley Problem: Oh no! You are under the trolley something something...

A bathtub is far from an ideal snogging environment, it turns out. Joe instinctively wraps her legs around me only to slide to the bottom and with my shirt still in her fist, I stumble on top of her.

Good thing there's no water in it or we might drown: we don't stop kissing even as laughter tangles with our tongues.

Our body heat has no difficulty in shoving the winter air outside. My glasses slide down my nose, barely clinging to the backs of my ears, but my hands have better things to do than fix them. Like massage the swell of her breasts through her sports bra.

Joe yanks at my waistband but there's no way I can give her the friction she demands without breaking my knees. I should break my knees. Hey Google: How to break own knees? Why are we in a fucking bathtub?

It's a tragedy that I have to interrupt the snogging but once I'm sitting and get to pull Joe onto my lap, the relief even through both of our trousers is entirely worth it.

Maybe if I have sex with her this once, I'll get over it. That could happen. In some corner of the multiverse, no doubt, that is what happens.

How likely is it to be this corner?

'What if someone comes in?' Bizarre of her to ask this whilst actively grinding against the ridge of my erection.

'Joe, they're playing Drunk Monopoly. No one's coming in.'

I try to pull the straps of her sports bra down her shoulders but there's too much structure for it to relent the way I expect it to. I blindly search the back for a clasp that loosens the bottom band just enough for Joe to wriggle out of it, though it's not exactly an elegant undressing. Not that I have any interest in elegance.

Stretch marks travel up her breasts. They cross her right nipple, an X to mark the spot. I've never been quicker to follow instructions; my mouth is latched to it before Joe has dropped the bra behind her.

The first moan I unhook from the base of her stomach sends a rush of pleasure through me that's so strong, I'm surprised I don't come right there. Joe rewards me with more as I undo her jeans and slide my hand in to massage her over the cotton of her underwear.

Her desire is frantic—panicked almost, whilst mine is thick and slow as syrup. There's no sound more intoxicating than my name tangled on her tongue. It spills from her like a pulse: Nikki, Nikki, Nikki.

How the fuck've I lasted four months of knowing her without doing this? Just so I don't get my heart broken? What kind of fucking idiot decided that? I'm never thinking with my brain again. The last two years have proven that my "dating life" is miserable either way; I might as well enjoy sex. That's what I'm good at, at the end of the day: pleasuring.

I forget all about that heartbreak nonsense the moment I slide my fingers under the waistband of her boxers and into her. I keep the heel of my palm on her clit as I curve my fingers inside her. Joe whines and writhes, grinding against my hand until she slides hers in over mine.

I think she's going to stop me. She doesn't. Her manicured nails dig into my wrist as she manoeuvres it like the handle of a dildo.

I know the whole reason for me not having casual sex anymore were so I could stop being treated like a sex toy, but there's summat so maddeningly hot about Joe using my hand like it's one—Joe, who celebrates not feeling guilty about greeting shop assistants. Joe, who adds about a dozen filler words into each sentence. Joe, who looks like she wants to turn invisible every time a Spectrum customer compliments her. You could expect that Joe to be timid when it comes to sex. 

And yet, here she is, fucking herself with my fingers, not slightly concerned with the way the seam of her jeans digs into the back of my hand.

She commands me with mere breaths, instructs me exactly how and where to touch her. I'm more than happy to comply. Until her body gives away her proximity to the edge which is when I cement myself and, no matter how deep her french tips dig crescents into my skin, don't move.

'What are you doing?' I pull my hand from her hold. 'No! Nicolás–'

'I want to taste. Will you let me? Please.'

A breath catches in her throat—not at the idea, I assume, but my directness in begging for it. She has no idea how well I can beg. Her eyes manage to focus enough to inspect mine and I allow her to search. It takes nearly a minute before Joe's mouth hooks into a smirk. 'Okay.'

I wrap her arms around my neck so I can stand, ache echoing through my knees from being bent for so long. Carrying her, I move both of us out of the confines of the tub and sit Joe onto the edge of Caleb's craft table. But during the metre of travel, she has faded, retreated to some place in her head.

Does she already regret it?

I thumb the soft skin above the elastic waistband of her boxers. 'Do you want to stop?'

With a blink, she's with me again. 'Don't stop. I'm okay.'

I've been on her side of this situation one too many times to take her words at face value—I'm not doing this if she's only trying to avoid confrontation or whatever potential awkwardness comes with a no. But Joe's smile, though faint, is genuine.

To prove it, she pulls me into a kiss, rough and demanding and I instinctually submit.

Under Joe's guidance, our lips glide over each other at a steady pace, resurrecting the intoxicating want effortlessly. It don't take long before I'm straining against the corduroy of my trousers, cursing the slim fit for being so unyielding. Unlike Joe's boyfriend jeans that are blissfully easy to remove along with her boxers.

A scream of laughter erupts outside the door though I barely register it over the rush of my blood when I finally have Joe naked. Save for her bi-flag socks. The rainy winter air from the window brings out gooseflesh on her thighs and I set to my task of warming her skin back up. These fucking thighs. The wait has definitely been worth it.

I'm so mesmerised by kneading them that my attention breaks only when Joe nudges me. 'Nikki.'

'Right. Sorry.' I find her gaze. 'Tell me if you want me to stop. At any time.'

She nods.

'Tell me if you like it.' I trail my lips down her neck. 'Can you do that for me, Joe?'

The heat of her blush radiates from her cheeks. But her voice has no thread of embarrassment in it. 'Do you have a praise kink?'

'Maybe.'

'Should I call you a good boy?'

'If you want,' I say and get on my knees. I'm ready to believe in God and, fuck, will I repent for however long is needed.

I grip her hips, thankful that there's enough on them to grip—and I mean grip, hard enough that it borders on painful but Joe don't seem to have an issue with that. My locs are too thick for her manicured nails to reach my scalp, though it's not for a lack of trying. Even when Joe presses me so close I can barely breathe and her thighs lock my head into place, I keep my pace slow and thorough. Frankly, I'd be more than happy to suffocate here. Put it on my gravestone—"Died in heaven. RIP."

The affirmations that spill from her fire so many reward chemicals in my brain that by the end of this, I might have a conditioned response to drop to my knees and start salivating any time she talks.

I could be Pavlov's dog. I'll be Joe's dog, whatever she asks.

Maybe if I perform proper well she'll fuck me, even once.

Grip rooted in my hair, she presses harder against my mouth until her orgasm trembles through her body. I ease her from the edge, laving the moisture from her like morning dew. I stop only when she releases me and I look up at her drunken grin.

'Thank you,' she says.

I am not above grovelling. I'll be happy to offer myself to her use for the rest of my life if it means I get to see her like this again.

'You're welco...'

In slow-motion horror, I watch tears pearl in her eyes. Dread unfurls, tightening around my chest at an incremental pace, but even when the infestation is slow, there's nowt I can do to stop it.

The next moment, Joe isn't shivering from her orgasm or from the cold but because she's sobbing. Still naked on the edge of the workbench, she wraps her arms around herself.

'She would be so upset.'

Reality slams back into focus, so sharp I almost expect to start bleeding. The hubris of intoxication melts and the fact that I'm in Caleb and Eilidh's hobby room after having sex with Joe who is still undeniably in love with her ex crashes onto me.

Suddenly the taste of her in my mouth is nowt but a testament to my stupidity. What happened to no sex with people who are emotionally unavoidable? Did I expect that one orgasm would make my affection mutual? Cause that's definitely how that works! Genius.

Besides, I'm not... These are just sex chemicals!

But the drinks are starting to taste a lot like crying to Love Story by Taylor Swift in the Aldi car park.

Wiping my mouth, I shut the window. I grab the throw blanket from the back of Eilidh's gaming chair and wrap Joe in it. When she gladly accepts it, I pull her into a hug.

'You're alright.' I rub her back, inviting her to press herself as close as she needs. And it's close. And it drives the knife in deeper. 'You're alright, Joe.'