She does not mean what she wants to say, but…

She wants to say “I love you.”

She’s surprised by this urge. She doesn’t mean it in the traditional sense. She doesn’t want him to marry her or even be her boyfriend. But the words are there on the tip of her tongue. She finally knows what people mean when they say that phrase. The individual letters are there, like alphabet soup, almost, just about, spilling out. She swallows them back.

She doesn’t say it.

They have an arrangement. Every Saturday, events and life permitting, they meet.

He doesn’t want her to do his laundry or proofread his reports or drive him somewhere. He doesn’t need her to stroke his ego or impress his friends or schedule his doctor appointments. The novelty of not being required for anything mundane is exhilarating. With him, she is giddy with the freedom of no-demands.

Except on Saturday nights, and Sunday mornings.

Those hours are full of demands, of firm hands on the back of her neck while his cock grows in her mouth. Of a rough toss to flip her to the position he prefers. Of her hair being pulled, her ass being smacked, her cunt being stretched and filled and filled and filled. Also, also, caresses, kisses, and “you did very goods” and the gentle thumbing away of tears.

Some talk of course, they know each other by now. He has dogs, she has books. They both like to garden and cook.

She hasn’t seen him in three weeks. She had plans with friends, family in town, an unexpected head cold. She’s surprised with how out of sorts she feels and how much she misses him. They don’t have that much in common. They really don’t. Yet…there is a need, an ache.

This Saturday, she cuts her plans as short as she can but it’s still dark when she gets to his house. Usually they spend some time in the kitchen, making small talk, having tea. Tonight they just head to his room, shed their clothes, and crawl into bed.

She curls up under his shoulder with her head on his chest and his arm down her back, lightly stroking her cool skin. She breathes a sigh of relief for the first time in weeks.

Later.

She thinks, “I love you for the way you fuck me and touch me and hurt me and soothe me. I love you for not needing me but wanting me.”

She wants to say “I love you.”

She says, “I love it when you fuck me.”

She means more than that, but there are too many words. So she wraps his arm across her chest, tucks her foot behind his foot, and sleeps.