The kiss wasn’t cute. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t the kiss of lovers meeting up after all these years.

I didn't need that shit from him. This was a kiss of pure, raw desire. Desire for him, but also to end what started years ago. It should have made me feel low, or possibly even ashamed, but I didn’t.

I felt so fucking powerful, especially for the brief moment I felt him give in and kiss me back.

He walked away years ago, and I could still prove that he made a mistake. He knew it with every new movement of our lips.

I pressed my frozen body into his barely clothed warmth for as long as I could before it all must’ve sunk into his head, and he pulled away looking at me with more confusion than I’d seen since the day I tried to explain my pronouns to my father.

He tried to talk several times but nothing came out.

“For the record, this is my closure, not the start of anything,” I said when he clearly wasn’t going to be able to get out a coherent word. We were still face to face, neither of us bothering to pull further back.

“I just…” That was at least the start of real words. It took a couple more fumbles before he got out, “I told you I’m not here to hook up with you, and then—and then you just throw yourself at me like that. Why do you always make everything so difficult?”

His words almost sounded angry, but there was an ever-so-subtle grin behind them and I knew he was just playing good-guy. He wanted it as much as I did, he just looked like the bigger jerk by showing it.

“It doesn't have to be difficult,” I said with a tiny shrug, only inching closer.

That was when he pulled back entirely, separating himself from temptation, or so I like to think. He raised his voice as he said to the empty distance, “Nope. This isn't fair. I’m trying really hard to not be the asshole here.”

“No. You don’t get to play that card with me anymore.” I matched my tone to his: not angry, but aggressive. He had no right to play hero with me.

Assholes were more fun for one night anyway.

That was all I needed. One night to treat him like every other nobody I met up with, even if that wasn't true.

“Just embrace it. Just be the asshole and enjoy the perks.” I threw my arms out theatrically and motioned to my whole body, to bring the point home with a bang... no pun intended. "You were the one who asked what I wanted."

He stared at my performance for a moment before rubbing his temples and muttering, “I am so fucking confused right now.”

“Yeah, me too,” I closed the distance between us, not so close to be touching, but close enough to bring all the tension back, “but to be blunt: I don’t really give a shit because you’re fucking hot, this town is fucking boring, and both of us have some serious pent up shit that needs to be released. That's my offer. Tonight only. Take it or leave it.”

Damien’s arms dropped, and his breath steadied, blowing warm fog across my face. He looked as if he had something profound and probably unnecessarily genuine to say...

“You still think I'm that hot?"

I snorted out an embarrassing laugh. Of course, that's what he got out of what I said. There was the Damien Matthews I knew from high school, a god awfully attractive nice guy disguised as a pompous jackass for the laughs.

At least he was taking the permission to be an asshole to heart.

"Good to know you haven't changed," I muttered under my breath before I pulled him in to pick up where we left off moments ago, this time with no resistance, even after minutes passed by.

The next hour was a blur. Something clicked, and it was like we were teenagers again, except way more experienced, and way more honest. It was his idea to air out anything weird we wanted to get out before things got heavy.

That was how he admitted to me he was pan and had been with several men and women since our break up, which, fine. Same.

And that led me to admit:

“I don’t like foreplay when hooking up.”

“Really?” Damien said like I’d dropped a brick on his head.

“Yes, really. It’s too personal.” And often gender-confirming, but that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. That started before we broke up. “I just want them to fuck me and get the fuck out, you know?”

“Well, that’s completely different from high school you,” Damien said with a chuckle. I knew what he was implying, and he was an asshole once again for implying it.

I slapped his shoulder and we fell back into each other for more.

We made out the entire way to his home: in the street, in his car, and to the front porch of his house—rather, his mansion. It was enormous, and fancy in that old-fashioned way, not some modern cool way.

I always hated that damn house as a kid, but at least it was familiar.

“I can’t believe you still live in this place,” I said as we slammed through his front door, his lips on my neck while he ripped off my jacket and tossed it on the floor. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t have a jacket to tear off, but that left me able to feel every muscle of his chest under his thin t-shirt the entire time.

I couldn’t wait to get that off.

“What am I supposed to do? Sell it?” he asked with a chuckle as he pulled away from my neck to look into my eyes. “Who’s seriously going to buy a multimillion-dollar mansion in the middle of fucking nowhere?”

"Fair enough." I didn't want his lips away from my skin for long, so I pulled his hair to bring him back to my neck. “Please don’t tell me your mom still lives—oomph!” Damien had pushed me to the stairs, and I tripped over the first one, landing flat on my ass.

We both busted out laughing as he reached down to help me up.

“She retired to Portugal five years ago. And thank god for that, because you’re not very subtle,” Damien lifted me to my feet like I was weightless, and right back to his face. We didn't kiss, we only lingered close enough to want it, bad.

I smiled, our lips resisting each other’s pull from millimeters apart. “Wouldn’t be the first time she caught us doing something stupid.”

Damien rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me,” and he closed the distance between us, probably to shut me up. But only for a moment before he separated again. “Maybe we should get up the stairs first.”

“Smart.” I reluctantly released him and ran up the stairs. The house was the same as I remembered it. No one had touched it all these years. But that meant I knew where Damien’s room was: up the stairs, to the left, first door on the right.

The room was as un-Damien-like as it always had been. Like something out of a British castle rather than the room of a teenage boy, now a not-British-royalty man. It was so much larger than the furniture required, and so much cleaner than any human's room should be.

I hardly made it over the threshold when Damien pulled me back, slammed me up against the wall, and pressed his entire body against mine. Every kiss, every touch, every breath got more and more intense as it became clearer and clearer: we were doing this.

His shirt came off first, and thank god for that. I didn’t hesitate to feel every single muscle of his chest and shoulders.

Damn. Some things about men still really got me going. I couldn’t resist digging my nails into his back, and then down to his ass to pull him in so his thigh pressed between my legs, teasing me in all the best ways.

My shirt came off next, and as much as I enjoyed every hot second of what we were doing, the dreaded moment was about to arrive. It crept closer with each new move we made. His hand, still burning hot after being out in the cold for over an hour, crept up my waist and to the compression shirt I always wore.

He reached under it, ready to struggle to get it over my head like I did every night and every morning and all my insecurities came flooding back.

I never had an issue telling my hookups no when it came to removing my compression shirt. They were getting free sex. They could suck it up.

Damien was different, even though I desperately didn't want him to be. Our relationship happened during the peak of my identity crisis, and even though he’d always been supportive, I had always been afraid of being completely honest with him in these moments.

It was one of many things that came between us, even if he wasn’t around to know it.

I had to stick to my priorities. Just do it. Come what may.

Before he could work the shirt up, I took his hand away and pulled back from kissing. “That stays on.”

His head tilted slightly in the moment of trying to understand. In response, he simply nodded and said, “Okay,” then went right back into kissing me, no less passionately than before.

Relief washed over me, and as far as I was concerned, I was completely his for the rest of the night. The fact that he—Damien Matthews—accepted my needs like that, well, that right there, alone, was a helluva lot more victory than I’d expected to get out of the night when I’d texted him back.

After another minute of kissing and feeling each other's bodies, trying to discover what had changed over seven years, when the gel in my hair became useless, and the scratches I left on his back were bright red, he lifted me straight off the ground, gripping my ass so I was straddling his waist as he brought me to the bed.

See, now that was the perk of masc: strong in the sexiest way. Which only felt all the better to dominate when the time came. He practically tossed me onto his bed and crawled on top of me, pulling my hips to press into the bulge beneath his jeans.

He brought the covers over us, which I didn’t mind as an extra barrier of identity cover, even if he was well aware of who I was under all my clothes, and I’d worked out my issues with sex and gender years ago, but it never hurt to have someone care how exposed I felt about it.

He raised to his knees to work off his belt, and I couldn’t stop from staring at him, towering over me.

It was almost painful to look at him, the man from my dreams and my nightmares, and part of me had to disassociate from everything we used to be just to convince myself this wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had, while the other half only wanted to focus on what we used to be and never let that go… both were made easier by how god damn sexy he was shirtless.

Focus.

I had my own clothes to remove if I wanted this to move along—and I did. Not to get it done, but to get it started. Really started.

Seven fucking years. I was done waiting. I worked my way out of my jeans as he worked his way out of his until we were both bare and he was lying on top of me once more.

I could feel him—all of him—teasing me between my legs as he pulled in for one more deep kiss.

Then, right before we passed to where we could not come back from, he pulled away and asked, “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

I threw my head back and couldn’t help but laugh. He really wanted to pretend he wasn’t the asshole, still. Fine, then one of us would have to be. I grabbed his shoulders and flung him down onto his back, allowing me to reign on top.

Like I said, dominating the strong man—nothing made me happier.

“I’m really fucking sure,” I said as I guided him into me. I always stayed tall to admire the first look on a man’s face when I lowered myself onto him, then I leaned over to kiss his neck, breathe in his ear, and bite at his lips. Whatever I could to drive him crazy.

And judging by each and every moan that escaped his lips, I did.

Most of the time, men were willing to let me take control, but Damien was ready to fight for power. He pushed me off after only a minute and took his place on top. Fine by me.

I liked a little conflict.

In fact, I liked a lot of conflict.

Damien knew how flexible I was from years of gymnastics and martial arts, and it would be no surprise how many men—and women—took advantage of that. For some reason, Damien did not.

Maybe it was because he was afraid of my previously shattered spine, or maybe it was because he opted to keep his body closer to mine—something I’d normally fight against but with Damien it was, once again, different.

It just was, and pretending it wasn't was a straight-up lie.

It wasn’t like there weren’t nights when I fell asleep on his chest.

Closeness was nothing new, just distant.

I clawed at his back and waist, pulling him in and urging him to go harder, faster, and longer as he kissed my neck and pulled me into his chest with one hand, while the other went lower to make sure I got as much out of the moment as he did.

There were no parents around anymore, like when we were teens. We could be as loud as we wanted, and we took advantage of that with each heavy breath.

It was when his hand pulled a loud and breathy, "Oh fuck, Damien," from my lips that it truly registered. I hadn't said his, or anyone's, name in that way in years.

I didn't hate it, but I kind of hated that I didn't hate it. I should've regretted being here, but I didn't.

Not even a little.

For some reason, I kept repeating his name into his ear with all lengths of profanity. Every time I breathed his name, a little more of the anger inside of me faded.

When he finally said my name back to me, deep, and moaning with pleasure, it made me dig my nails in deeper, deeper, deeper, into his back as I pulled to the edge of pleasure. I didn’t care if I left scars, and apparently, he didn’t either.

I dug my hips into him, ready and willing for him to take me all the way.

And he did.

Only moments later, he finished inside me, collapsing on top of me, breathing heavily in my ear as he gained the energy to roll over.

I didn’t mind. I love that exhausted sound and the weight and warmth of his body on top of me.

And just like that, I'd done it. I had gotten everything I needed to finally get the fuck over Damien Matthews.

Or, so half of me felt.