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One Last Time

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You sit anxiously on the edge of the couch, repeatedly checking the clock.

You hadn’t seen or heard from Sonny in 16 days.

That is, until he texted you this morning.

He wanted to know if you’d be home this evening. So he could get his things. So he could finally close this chapter. So he could move on.

Where did it go wrong?



He knocks three times on the door and your heart jumps. For a moment you hesitate, unsure if you want to answer. You’re angry with him. You feel betrayed. But you also can’t deny that you miss him. More than you can handle. His smile. His touch. His presence.

You don’t want it to end like this. You don’t really want to say good-bye.

You open the door, and your breath catches in your throat. He is standing in front of you, face expressionless and eyes hard. The rain has soaked his coat and mussed his hair, with one wet lock hanging loose in front.

Without saying a word, you step aside to let him in, motioning toward the full box sitting in the middle of the living room. He walks toward it purposefully, and then stops, turning to look at you. The tension between you is palpable, and you realize that you’ve been holding your breath.

“I’m sorry for coming over so late.”

His voice. It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak in over two weeks, and it sends a jolt through you.

“That’s all?” you answer bitterly, crossing your arms. The pain is still fresh and you don’t know how else to respond.

“I probably deserve that,” he says. His expression is vulnerable and entreating, and you find it is impossible to stay angry for long.

You both stand there silently for a moment. Then, Sonny steps forward and takes your arm. He pulls you close and kisses you hard, squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a quiet, agonized moan. He then quickly pulls away.

“I’m sorry, I- I know I shouldn’t,” he says, blinking and shaking his head, voice hoarse.

His lips against yours and his hands on your waist had sent a tingle up your spine, instantly making you wet, and your cheeks were red with shame.

You look at him, then at the floor, considering what to do next. You’re overwhelmed and flooded with conflicting emotions, but your longing for him is screaming the loudest.

You want this. You need this. This closeness. Him.

You hesitate before telling him what you want. Then, with your heart pounding in your chest, cheeks hot, you half-whisper, “One last time?”

He pauses for a brief moment, considering. You instantly regret asking and expect him to turn and leave. But instead, he takes off his coat.

No other words are spoken as he comes near you and kisses you again, deeper. You step backward, leading him toward your bedroom as you tear at each other’s clothes.

One last time.


You lay down on the bed and he climbs on top of you, urgent and eager. His hands roam over your body - a body he has touched and held and licked and kissed countless times before - but now there is a primal desperateness to his touch that you’ve never felt before.

He brings his mouth to your breast, licking and nibbling on your nipple and causing you throw your head back and moan his name. He then begins moving up your frame, fiercely kissing you again on the lips. His hand moves down between your legs and he can feel your wetness through your underwear. You kiss his jaw, down his neck, tongue running over his Adam’s apple, tasting him.

Rocking your hips against his hand, he pushes aside your panties and lightly traces around your clit with his thumb. You let out a ragged breath, trembling. He always knew exactly how to touch you.

He then pulls out his cock, hard and impatient, and presses it against your wet entrance. Before pushing in, he looks down at you, wordlessly asking if you’re sure. You answer by rolling your hips forward, pressing up against him and urging him to enter you. He does and you let out a gasp, closing your eyes, savoring the sensation of him filling you up, feeling whole.

He then slowly begins thrusting in and out, each movement eliciting a moan of pleasure. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer and fully feeling his weight on top of you.

For a moment you look into his eyes - those piercing, kind, familiar blue eyes - and unwanted memories immediately rush to the surface. Every fight, every first, every late night. The hurt and the laughter and the regret. You quickly push the memories away and bring yourself back to the moment. You focus on the smell of his cologne, the warmth of his skin against yours, the sensation of him moving inside you. You never want to forget this; his heaviness on you, his scent, his shape.

His pace begins to steadily increase, and you can’t help but cry out, gripping him tightly. You urge him to fuck you harder; you want to make sure you can feel this tomorrow. The bed shakes and the framed pictures on your wall rattle, and sweat rolls down his back. He pounds you hard, relentlessly, losing all control. Each thrust builds on the last, bringing you closer to orgasm.  

The intense mix of emotions you’re feeling - anger, love, lust, despair - has left you feeling completely vulnerable, open and exposed. Each thrust, each touch of his hand and kiss from his lips is raw and intimate and painful and loaded. The pressure builds, and every sensation is amplified. The heat spreads throughout your body, lighting your nerves on fire.

He makes you come with a gush, and you dig your nails into his back, grind your hips into his, and bury your face in his neck, screaming in pleasure against his hot, sticky skin. He comes right as you do, tensing up as he pushes himself even deeper into you with a groan. Your heart, inches from his, thuds in your chest.

After a brief pause, your breathing slows and he rolls off of you. This time you don’t hold one another, instead laying miles apart on the bed in silence. The glow quickly fades and reality begins to settle back in.



A few minutes go by. You don’t know what else to do but listen to him breathe. Rhythmic. Steady. He gets out of bed, turning away from you to get dressed and you recognize the sound of linen and silk fabrics rustling as he puts his clothes back on.

“I really do gotta get goin’” he says, tucking in his shirt. There’s a hint of regret in his voice, and you try not to think about where he has to be.

“Yeah, I know,” you quietly reply. You wait a moment before continuing, realizing with a sinking feeling that this is likely the last conversation you’ll ever share.

“The last of your stuff is in the living room, in that box. It’s all there.”

He continues to look in the other direction and doesn’t respond. Instead, he finishes getting dressed in silence, buttoning his vest and slipping on his shoes. He heads toward your bedroom door, but before he walking through it, he stops and faces you.

“I really did love you, you know,” he says, the words hitting you hard. His expression is serious, and his jaw is set. You look at him intently, trying to memorize the last details of his face.

“I know,” you say, then wait. “I really did love you too.” You feel like a fool, but you say it anyway.

He nods and looks at the floor. Then back up at you. His face somber.

“Take care of yourself, doll,” he says. Then he leaves the room.

You wait. You allow yourself a moment to hope, blinking back tears.

But a few minutes later, you hear your front door shut.

And Sonny Carisi is gone.