An Unforgettable Valentine's Day

Chapter 45

Today is Valentine's Day. Restaurant tables are all booked up, motel rooms have lines out the door, and bars are overflowing with couples chasing a bit of fantasy. It's like this every year—if you wanna celebrate, you gotta plan ahead. But him... he always put it off.

I'd been trying to line something up for over a week. A pizza, some wine, the bare minimum. And he always hit me with that half-assed response from someone who didn't wanna commit: "We'll figure it out later," "We'll sort it," "Leave it to me." But he never did shit. Me, hopeless romantic, still believed someone might wanna surprise me. That maybe he was just biding his time. That he was scheming something behind the silence.

But time slipped by. And night fell. And nothing came.

I tried not to let it get to me, but it was unavoidable—the disappointment piled up like a weight on my shoulders, like a slow sadness creeping down between my legs and leaving me hollow. I wanted flowers, a kiss on the forehead, a table in soft light. I wanted touch, scent, any kind of intention.

But what could I do? Guys are like that. A lot of 'em never learn the weight of a gesture. They think we'll always be there, waiting, even when they deliver jack shit.

When night hit, I was already ready. Not just dressed—ready. Ready to live something beautiful, to be touched with care, to feel like I mattered.

I picked a white dress with delicate flowers, almost innocent. There was something pure about it, like I was trying to convince the world I still believed in love. I wore low sandals, loose hair with soft waves, new lingerie underneath—the kind he'd complimented once, not knowing I'd file it away in my head. I lotioned up with the cream he said he liked, left my skin soft, smooth, scented. Completely shaved. All the ways he liked it.

Even if it was for nothing. Even if it was just for me.

When he texted that he was on his way, my heart still tried to get excited. I wanted it to be different so bad.

I got in the car and almost broke down crying.

He was in shorts and flip-flops. Shirt all wrinkled, eyes distracted, like it was just another random night. Like it wasn't a big deal. And maybe to him, it wasn't.

I wanted to feel angry. But it didn't come. What hit was a lump in my throat. A tear threatening to spill, but I held it back hard just so I wouldn't fall apart in front of him.

I sat in the passenger seat quiet. Didn't wanna argue. Wasn't worth it anymore. Deep down, something had already decided: tomorrow, I'd end it. Or at least ask for a break. I didn't wanna keep hurting for someone who didn't know how to show he cared.

To make it worse, he said before we headed out, he needed to grab something in a nearby little town. It was urgent, apparently. Then we'd eat "some barbecue at the shack." Yeah. Barbecue. On Valentine's Day. I should've laughed.

When I asked about the shorts, he shot back with that practical dismissal: "I got an old pair of jeans in the car."

I went with him, silent. He tried to make small talk on the way, like nothing was wrong. Threw out random lines, laughed to himself, fiddled with his phone. Even took a call on speaker:

"Get it ready, I'll be there in twenty minutes."

The voice on the other end sounded like they were waiting to hand off some junk. Some last-minute bullshit he decided to handle tonight of all nights.

Tonight of all nights.

The place felt like the middle of nowhere.

The city faded behind us, lights dimming, and before I knew it, we were in a dirt-road neighborhood, dark potholed streets lined with small farms and scattered houses. The pop-up bars along the way were packed with couples—young pairs holding hands, flowers in grip, laughter floating free. And every glimpse felt like another punch to my gut.

My heart squeezed tight. Every dusty corner reminded me I shouldn't be here. I should be somewhere nice, warm, desired, celebrated. Instead, I was in a stuffy car with a guy who hadn't made the slightest effort to please me.

When I thought it couldn't get worse, he pulled over on an empty, silent street, not a soul around. A big house with high walls and an unlocked gate. The whole spot seemed abandoned.

"Wait here a sec, just gonna grab it and we'll head out," he said, already popping the door.

"What are you grabbing?" I asked, not hiding the exhaustion.

"It's quick. Be right back."

And he went in, leaving me there. Alone. In the dark. In some strange place. In a car parked in suffocating blackness, surrounded by cricket chirps and the dust of my disappointment.

My blood boiled.

What the fuck was this? Was this my Valentine's Day? Being an accomplice to some junk handoff at a farm? Being his chauffeur, a side character in a night that should've been mine?

Time dragged, over ten minutes and nothing. I eyed the jeans and sneakers tossed in the back seat with contempt.

Then my phone buzzed with a text.

"Babe, bring me the jeans and sneakers from the car? Forgot 'em."

I stared at the screen in disbelief. Stared at the seat. Wanted to chuck it all into the bushes and drive home, leaving him stranded.

But that's how we are. We bitch, curse in our heads, swear a thousand times we'll never do it again, but still... we do. We go. We deliver.

With the jeans and sneakers in hand, I pushed the gate open hesitantly and stepped into the unlit garden's darkness. The house seemed still, quiet, like it was waiting to deliver one last humiliation.

But something felt off.

I stopped, trying to make sense of the thick darkness ahead. The gate was behind me, but everything else... just silence, the smell of wet grass, and a light mist in the air. The stone path under my feet stretched toward the house, but I could barely see beyond shadows.

That's when I heard it.

Music.

Soft at first, like it was coming from far off, through the trees, or maybe from the ground itself. My body tensed. I knew that tune. My heart pounded faster, a shiver running up my spine. It was familiar. It was ours.

The music swelled, and my chest filled with something I couldn't name: shock, emotion, maybe a touch of fear.

And then, in a blink, everything changed.

Soft lights started flickering on, one by one, along the ground—like they'd woken to my presence. They traced a golden path through the weeds and stones, guiding my steps through the shadows. But what really stole my breath were the trees.

Tall, framing the trail, they were strung with tiny amber lights twinkling in the branches like enchanted fireflies. The glow filtered through the leaves, casting patterns on the ground, dancing shadows, a magical, almost ethereal vibe—like I was stepping into a dream. A secret grove, made just for me.

The house in the distance stayed subtle, just the porch gently lit. And that's where I saw him.

Standing under the warm porch light, he waited for me. Dressed in the blazer I loved, crisp shirt, steady gaze. In his hands, a huge bouquet of red flowers. On his face, the smile of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Did you really think I'd forget about us?"

I laughed. I cried. I wanted to run. I wanted to hug him.

I took the first step. That's when I saw: rose petals blanketed the path to him, scattered among the stones like the whole ground was in love.

I wavered. But I took a deep breath, and went. Went to him with my heart wide open, to the sound of our song, under trees lit up like the sky.

I ran toward him and my body crashed into his with the force of someone who couldn't wait anymore. He wrapped me in his arms and nearly lifted me off the ground, hiking my dress up my thighs. And then he kissed me.

It wasn't just any kiss.

It was a kiss tasting of reunion, of a promise kept. His mouth met mine with urgency and precision, wet, hungry, soft—and at the same time firm, like he was saying: "Now it's my turn." He parted my lips with his, exploring, tasting, sucking my tongue like it was the start of deeper pleasure. The world vanished there, in that kiss. Just us two.

If there was anything planned from the start to the end of that night, it'd have to wait. Because my body, fired up by the surprise and the love that survived the frustration, didn't want any more formalities.

Tight kisses. Wandering hands. Muffled moans between touches. We stumbled through the door, tripping over the carpet of red petals, not looking anywhere else. I didn't see decorations, didn't see what he'd set up. I only saw him.

His body pressed to mine, hot, hard, buzzing. His cock, already stiff under his slacks, poked at my belly like a threat. I grabbed him hard, my hand yanking to free it, no ceremony, no shame. I wanted to feel it, grab it, suck it. I wanted it all.

And he wanted it too. His hand was already under my dress, sliding up my thighs to find the lace of my new panties. Fingers moved with skill, like hunting for an opening, a gap, an invitation. And that's all I was: invitation. My whole body throbbed.

Lust pulsed in my skin. I trembled. I was wet, open, ready.

We tripped into a bed that seemed to appear just for us. The room was a blur of soft lights and the scent of flowers mixed with our perfumes—but I didn't notice shit. I shoved him hard, making him fall back, and climbed on top like I was claiming him.

He laughed, that low chuckle that always undid me, but this time I took control. I knelt between his legs, undid his belt with almost animal hunger, yanked down his pants in a rush, and let his cock spring free, hard and hot like it'd been waiting for me forever.

I gripped it with both hands, admired it.

The head throbbed, slick, exposed. He panted, and I felt the power of that moment flood me. I leaned in, let my tongue slide along the side of his cock, slow, until I felt him twitch. Then I planted a wet kiss on the tip, licking the head with my mouth open, letting saliva drip—teasing, dirty, worshiping.

"Fuck..." he groaned, voice rough.

And I smiled with my lips still around his head. I sucked. Went deep, slow at first, then faster. I wanted him to feel it all: my hot mouth, my hunger, my anger turned to lust. My throat adjusted to every thrust, and he held my hair, not pulling—just to feel I was his.

I made noise on purpose. Wanted him to hear how bad I wanted him. His cock sliding between my lips, in and out, wet, hard, delicious. One hand massaged his balls, the other trailed up his thighs to his trembling abs.

He was coming undone from my gift.

I still had my mouth full of him when he groaned something through gritted teeth—a rough "come here," desperate, lost in the pleasure.

But I didn't go gentle.

I climbed up fast, shoving his chest with my hand and straddling him with my dress bunched to my waist. I shifted my soaked panties aside, just enough, and took his cock in one motion: firm, deep, hard.

I sank down all the way.

A muffled slap of flesh on flesh filled the room.

"Holy shit..." he gasped, eyes squeezing shut, head falling back.

I didn't stop.

Sank again. Harder. With anger and lust, the way he liked. I ground down heavy, like my body wanted to crush him, break him, mark him. I rode him hard, hips working shameless, relentless, merciless.

My fingers clawed his chest over the open shirt. My hair fell like a curtain over our faces. He gripped my hips, trying to set the pace—but it was pointless. I was an animal on top of him. A hot storm. A lover set on revenge through pleasure.

I had a spike of anger I wanted to work out.

I moaned without holding back. Every thrust made my body shake. I felt his cock stretching me inside, hitting deep with that friction that drove me wild. With every drop, my clit rubbed against his base, sending raw, intense waves of pleasure.

I was still riding hard, my whole body pulsing, when he grabbed my waist and, in one firm move, flipped me onto my back on the bed.

He came over me, pressing his chest to mine, hot breath on my face. He looked at me like he was gonna say something, but he didn't. Just slid back inside, slow at first, then with that raw power from deep within.

Missionary.

But there was nothing simple about that position. It was intimate. Deep. Soul to soul.

Our eyes locked, mouths almost touching, breathing the same hot air. I felt every thrust opening me up inside, tearing away what was left of my pride. His hands cradled my face tenderly while his body fucked me with intensity, with surrender.

"Cum with me..." he whispered, voice breaking.

"I'm almost there..." I replied, biting my lips, feeling the climax build fast, inevitable, like a furious wave rising from within.

And then it hit.

I came first, with a muffled moan into his shoulder, legs shaking, arms around his back, nails digging into skin. He followed right after, with a rough grunt, burying deep like he wanted to stay locked inside me.

His cum filled me, hot, alive, pulsing with mine.

We stayed there. Stuck together. No rush to pull away.

We breathed heavy, panting, bodies sweaty and hearts slowing bit by bit. He kissed my forehead. I kissed his mouth. And this time it was different—sweet, calm, full of love. A kiss that said "it's you," without words.

We held each other in silence, like we knew the best part of the night wasn't the gift, or the setup, or the surprise. It was being there. Together. Real. Bare inside and out.

The tree lights still twinkled outside the window. Our song played soft somewhere. And I, completely naked and satisfied in his arms, knew this was, without a doubt, the best Valentine's Day of my life.

Happy Valentine's Day.