Sneaking Around with My Best Friend’s Ex

My First Time Being Bad

There’s something dangerously exciting about sneaking around. That first moment you cross a line, knowing there’s no turning back. The thrill is addictive, like a secret kiss behind a locked door. And that’s exactly what happened the weekend my best friend came to visit. I could take a small break from being the sweetest girlfriend experience at PSK and go have some fun.

We’ve been inseparable since our college days, bonded by bad decisions and good wine. She needed a break—heartbroken, frustrated, and freshly single after her boyfriend of two years dumped her out of nowhere. I told her to crash with me. “We’ll do wine nights and spa mornings,” I said. “Just the girls. No drama.”

That was the plan… until he showed up.

Her ex. Tall, cocky, still sexy in that maddening way.

I hadn’t seen him since their breakup, but I remembered the way he used to look at me when she wasn’t paying attention. Like he was imagining something he shouldn’t. And maybe I was, too. We ran into him at a rooftop bar. My bestie stiffened the moment she saw him. Tried to fake a smile but bailed early. “I just can’t,” she muttered. “You stay and have fun.” And just like that, this is how the sneaking around began. I was alone with him. One drink became two. One laugh turned into a loaded silence. He leaned closer and said, “I always wondered what it’d be like with you instead.”

That should’ve been the red flag. But instead, I kissed him. We didn’t make it back to his place. We barely made it to his car before our hands were tangled in each other’s clothes. He had me straddling him in the backseat, my moans swallowed by his mouth, his hands gripping my hips like he’d been waiting years for this moment. His sexual experience was nothing like I ever had.

God, the rush of sneaking around had me dripping.

The windows fogged. The seats rocked. Every brush of his lips, every snap of his hips, was reckless and raw and exactly what I shouldn’t have done. But I wanted it. I needed it. It made sneaking around worth it.  I snuck back into my apartment like a teenager breaking curfew. She was asleep in the guest room, blissfully unaware that I’d just been fucking the man who used to make her breakfast in that very kitchen. I told myself it was a one-time thing. A slip. A secret I’d bury.

But then came the text. “Tonight. Same place?” And I went. Again. And again.

Now, every time she visits, we’re sneaking around. While she showers, I text him. While she naps, I meet him. Quick fucks in parking garages. Hands under the table when we “accidentally” all go out for drinks. We’ve fucked in the laundry room, the hallway, once in my closet while she was in the next room.

The danger of sneaking around makes it hotter. The guilt makes it deeper.

And honestly? I think it turns him on knowing she still talks to me about him. Says she’s “over it.” But he knows the truth. And so do I. We’re not just sneaking around anymore—we’re hooked. Addicted to the secrecy. Obsessed with the heat. And I know it can’t last. She’ll find out. Or he’ll disappear again. Or maybe I’ll get tired of being the side piece in a story I never asked to be part of. But until then?

I’m going to keep sneaking around—because no man has ever made me feel this filthy, this desired, this alive. It’s wrong. It’s fucked up. But it’s so damn good. And sometimes, pleasure is worth the price of betrayal.

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