His arms encircled her neck, his forehead pressed against hers. Up close, his eyes searched hers, as if pleading to find the same desire mirrored back. I don’t love him, she thought, does he even realize?
He didn’t. His lips found hers, insistent, hungry. She kissed him back, but it was mechanical, hollow—a gesture he didn’t seem to notice. His mouth moved to her neck, warm and wet, while his hands roamed, cupping her breasts, teasing her skin. She felt detached, a spectator to her own body.
Then he was lower, his lips closing around one breast, his fingers playing with the other. He tugged her underwear down in one swift motion. Now he’ll go further, she thought, resigned. He did, his head dipping between her thighs, but the sensation was muted, a shadow of what it once was. Before last weekend. Before he’d gone out with Jim and came back changed—when she’d learned the truth. His first boyfriend, the only one from high school until now, had called him “Micro.” A cruel nickname, whispered in the dark. Suddenly, it clicked: the way he always waited until he was fully hard before shedding his clothes, the subtle shame she’d never questioned.
Revulsion surged through her. She shoved him—hands against his chest, legs kicking free—and scrambled to her feet. He stared up at her, bewildered, lips still glistening.
“I don’t love you anymore!” she spat, her voice sharp enough to cut through his shock.
“Why?” he stammered, eyes wide.
“Just because!”
She yanked her clothes on, fabric catching on her trembling fingers, and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind her.