Whispers between the Sheets

The first time I saw him, he walked in like the world hadn’t broken him—yet you could see in his eyes that it had tried.

He was tall, a solid 6’1”, silver dusting his temples, with arms that had clearly seen years of gym commitment. His scent was clean and subtle—sandalwood, maybe—with something else that felt like a memory you couldn’t quite place. The kind that stayed on your skin long after.

“Jocy?” he asked softly, his voice a gentle baritone. I nodded, feeling suddenly like the world had paused for a second too long.

I was used to control, to setting the pace. But something about this man—Craig—shifted the rhythm.

He didn’t stare. He looked. Really looked. As if he saw me, not just the image or the fantasy. And in that moment, I felt more like a woman than I ever had with anyone before.

He sat on the edge of the bed, careful, like the air between us was fragile. “I’ve never done this,” he said.

“Me neither,” I lied.

His laugh was low and nervous, his hand resting on his knee. I reached out, placing my fingers over his. His skin was warm, slightly calloused—hands of a man who’d built something, held something real.

That night, we didn’t rush. We touched like we were learning each other’s language. I guided him, and he followed, then led. His lips brushed mine, hesitant at first, then hungry. And between the slow kisses and whispered sighs, he called me beautiful. Not just out loud. In the way he touched me. In the way he said my name like a secret.

We lay tangled under cotton sheets after. The air smelled like skin and breath and something too tender to name. He told me about his life—bits and pieces. An architecture firm. A wife who still smiled but couldn't look her in the eyes like he used to. A teenage adopted son who barely spoke. He didn’t say he was unhappy. But he didn’t have to.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he admitted.

I traced the faint scar on his chest. “Neither do I. But it feels… okay.”

He came back three more times. Each visit, we peeled away more than just clothes. I saw the man under the clothing—the boy who once dreamed, the father who still tried, the husband who no longer knew how to reach the woman sleeping beside him.

And he saw me. Not the escort. Not the secret. But Jocy Mendez. The woman I’d fought to become - Not Your Ordinary Girl. 

The last time he came, his eyes were quiet. Like A storm after it has passed.

“She found my texts,” he said. “I didn’t confess. But I can’t come back.”

I nodded. My throat burned, but I smiled anyway. “You have to go home.”

He kissed my forehead like I was something he was grateful for and couldn’t keep. “Thank you for letting me feel again.”

After he left, I lay on the bed where his warmth still lingered. I didn’t cry. But I stared at the ceiling and whispered his name once—just once.

Sometimes love isn’t in the forever.

Sometimes it’s in the fleeting.

In the way someone makes you feel like more than just who you are—but everything you’ve ever wanted to be.

And for me, that was Craig.

A whisper between the sheets.

A reminder that I was real.

Even just for a moment.