It was the second time that week we’d hung out with Nick, a lithe architect a few years our junior. It had taken a grand total of 15 minutes for him to come up as a match for our joint tinder profile; you liked his wry, almost pouting smile and the dumb joke in his bio. I liked his tousled brown hair and to my everlasting shame, the shirtless rock climbing picture hidden under tamer snaps of him posing with friends or his dog. He matched your swimmer’s build and I felt a heat rise in my cheeks when I pictured myself between the two of you.

Our first outing had confirmed a mutual attraction between all parties; drinks turned into dinner which turned into more drinks as we chatted, my hand running up your thigh under the table. Plans to hang out and watch a movie at his townhouse later in the week were firmed up as the cheques were being taken care of, and before I knew it we were all awkwardly hugging goodbye on the street corner before heading to our respective vehicles. We drove in silence before finally looking at each other and bursting into peals of nervous laughter. That night I rode you hard in the back seat of my car, whispering all the things I was going to do with you and Nick when I got the chance. You came, grinding into me from below as I buried my face in the crook of your neck, smiling at the moans and frantically bucking hips.