I once thought he was the love of my life. I fell way too fast in love with him, but he didn't fall in love with me. He had a girlfriend that I didn't know about and that was just one of his secrets. Looking back, I was naive. I should have known better and not gotten so carried away. But you know what they say: love is blind. Or in this case, great sex is blind.

My broken heart has healed long and wide by now, but I can't help but think back to that oh, so good sex every now and then. With him I felt like our bodies were made for each other. He always knew exactly where to hit. With him I reached an climax effortlessly time and again and our lovemaking always ended in a shared orgasm. With no one else have I come so often at the same time.

My girlfriends have often asked me what I would do if he were to send me a message now. Often enough I have said that I would not respond. That I would ignore him, or even block him. Deep down I knew that I would not do that. The temptation is simply too great to resist. But until yesterday he just left me alone and there was no temptation at all to resist. Until yesterday I thought that he was no longer interested in me, but nothing could be further from the truth.

His message caught me off guard, “I’ve been thinking about you for days and even dreamed about you last night.” I read when I open his WhatsApp message. I now know that I shouldn’t always believe him. He’s a charmer, a player and a fuckboy. He knows exactly what to say to win you over again and it always works. I tell myself that I won’t fall for his talk this time and pretend that I’ll be in control this time.

In my answer, I try to sound uninterested. We both know that if I really wasn’t interested, I wouldn’t have started the conversation, but I don’t want to make it too easy for him. He doesn’t have to know that I secretly want nothing more than one more night with him. At least, not yet.

A few days later, I’m near his local pub. The chance that I’ll run into him there when I walk in is almost a hundred percent and I know that very well. Still, I pretend to be stunned when I supposedly bump into him that evening. He sees right through my act. I know that too, but he plays along obediently. “What a nice surprise, honey.” He says when we stand face to face for the first time in months. “Gosh,” I lie. “Never thought I’d run into you tonight.”

We take a shot and order a drink. He pretends not to remember what I like to drink and I pretend to have forgotten where he works these days. We toast and chat as if we are nothing more than two old colleagues who have bumped into each other by chance. I start to wonder who we are actually performing this act for. How this evening is going to end is no longer a mystery to either of us.

When the third round of shots is in front of us, he makes a decision. “After this one, we’re going, honey.” he says determinedly. “We?” I ask. “Yes, we,” he answers. There’s no doubt in his voice. He looks at me as he knocks back his gin and then stands up. “Come on,” he says. I can’t help but follow him. This is exactly what makes me weak. He’s so sure of himself, almost arrogant, and that’s exactly what I fall for every time.

When we enter his apartment, I forget that I wanted to play hard to get. I don’t feel like playing those stupid games anymore. I only feel like doing one thing. I see that naughty twinkle in his eyes that I used to see every weekend. One look says it all. He knows I want him and he enjoys having checkmated me for the umpteenth time. He has won me over again and I give myself over to him all too gladly, completely.

The wonderful lovemaking from earlier still glows in my body. Dylan seems exhausted for the time being, I let him rest for a while and look around the spacious loft. Most of the space is half dark, there is only the late evening light that falls from outside through the glass wall. In the back is a luxury kitchen with a cooking island, which from the looks of it is actually being used. A man who can cook…

Further to the right is a wide wall with an impressive bookcase, filled with mainly novels in Dutch and English, also a few in Spanish and French. Under a mezzanine, a workspace has been set up with a laptop and two separate computer screens. Above that is probably a bed. On the side wall hangs a large black and white photo: a female nude. The photo only shows an upper body, pale skin, a slim waist. Full, perfectly round and firm breasts, hard nipples. The woman is wearing an open harness of black leather straps with shiny metal rings and buckles. Tough, sexy, a bit of a kinky bondage vibe. The thought that he likes this makes me smile.

A little tense, I walk on my high heels into the spacious hall where the reception is taking place. I look around me, see chicly dressed men and women, glasses of champagne on high tables with spotless white tablecloths. A waitress hands me a glass; I carefully sip the fresh, sparkling wine while I scan the room. At the back I see a tall woman dressed in black with short snow-white hair, talking, gesticulating, in the center of attention. That must be the artist whose work will be on display here in the coming weeks. I don't see Dylan yet. Early this morning I received a message from him with the invitation to this vernissage. And as always, a message followed with detailed dress codes. Quite daring dress codes. When I read the message I already got butterflies in my stomach.

I am wearing a mid-length black trench coat, with only lingerie underneath. A push-up bra, thin, shiny stay-up stockings and a spicy pearl thong. A beautiful lace panty without a crotch, with only a string of pearls stretching from my lower abdomen through my crotch to my buttocks. The hard balls give a delicious, slightly tingling sensation with every step I take. The neckline of the trench coat shows a lot of my full cleavage: the extra padding in the cups of my push-up bra creates a breathtakingly deep gap between my natural curves. Through the slit in my coat I show my long legs with every step I take and sometimes a glimpse of the lace band of my skin-coloured stockings can be seen.