Afterglow
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Interlude - The Almost Goodbye
Erotica Sex Story: Interlude - The Almost Goodbye - They met in an alley: wild, reckless, unforgettable. Ginger never meant to fall for Coco’s chaos. Coco never meant to fall for anyone at all. But between stolen nights, whispered dares, and the kind of heat that burns through skin and bone, something unruly grew — something more dangerous than lust. This is not a story about taming a wild thing. It’s a story about becoming wild enough to stay.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Humor BDSM Light Bond Spanking Group Sex Anal Sex Cream Pie Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism Big Breasts Hairy Public Sex
I woke to cold sheets and a colder room.
The fire had gone out. Her boots were gone. Her scarf—the grey one with the unraveling edge—was missing from the hook where it had hung since Paris.
For a second, I just stared at the door, still ajar, as if she might blow back in like mist off the mountain.
She didn’t.
I pulled on my jeans from the floor, shoved bare feet into cold boots, and stepped into the snow, following a trail of light prints leading down the slope. The frost bit through me like glass.
She was sitting alone on the edge of the train platform, the sky behind her bleeding lavender and steel. The mountains looked ancient, like they’d witnessed a thousand departures just like this.
She didn’t turn when I sat beside her.
I looked at her hands first—bare, red with cold, curled into fists in her lap. Then her face, tight with something not anger. Not fear. Something rawer.
“I’m not running,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”
The train to Zurich would arrive in twelve minutes. I could hear it somewhere out of sight—steady, inevitable.
“I packed nothing,” she added. “Just my ID. Toothbrush. One change of underwear.”
“You weren’t sure.”
“I’m still not.”
I waited. The silence cracked like ice beneath thin boots.
“I’ve left a lot of people,” she said. “Lovers. Jobs. Cities. But I’ve never left like this. Never left someone I...” She swallowed. “Someone I didn’t want to leave.”
My throat closed.
“I thought I could keep us as a story,” she said. “A series of scenes. Fucking in the opera box. Choking on your cock in Tokyo. Screaming your name in a goddamn sandstorm. But it’s bleeding into everything now. Into mornings. Into eggs. Into who I am when you’re not inside me.”
She turned to me, finally.
And I saw it: the fear not of losing me—but of losing herself.
“Every time you hold me without undressing me, I feel like I’m going to shatter.”
I didn’t touch her. I didn’t breathe.
“I don’t want to be the wild girl you remember when your next girlfriend wants missionary and matching towels.”
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