Our first date wasn’t a date.
It was dinner for ten at Spring Moon in Hong Kong.
The man I fucked that night wasn’t a stranger.
Years before we ever kissed,
he walked into my space.
Sharp suit. Sharper mouth.
Arrogant. Demanding. Alive.
I didn’t melt.
I didn’t swoon.
I filed him away under irritation and interest.
Then years later,
another meeting,
another city,
another collision that wasn’t a collision.
Different roles.
Different lives.
But the space was the same.
Already stretched between us.
Already humming with something unnamed.
The first time he took me out,
it wasn’t love at first sight.
It was first impact.
By the time I went with him,
by the time I took him inside me,
by the time my hips made him spill,
I wasn’t letting a stranger in.
I was completing a pull that started long before.
And our first date hasn’t ended since.
He didn’t chase me.
I didn’t seduce him.
I never left.
I never left after sleeping with him from our first date.
Twenty years.
Three daughters.
A business built together.
I never left his side.
He was mine and I was his,
long before I ever undressed.
Today is our anniversary.
Happy anniversary, BB
