The Love Letter

I stayed on my knees, because this is worship—this is church.

What sparks a story?

For me, it’s usually a memory, a fantasy, or a dream, but sometimes it’s serendipity. This story is inspired by a note posted by Katie Valentine and a dash of reality. I welcome your comments. ❤️💋

The Love Letter

by T. Vale

Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy

“Men and women just can’t be friends, not truly,” he declared.

“Fuck you, man. She’s my best friend, has been for seven years.” I shot back.

“Nope. Impossible.”

This is the type of pseudo-intellectual bullshit Jules lives for. He reads just enough to be a danger to himself and others.

“How the fuck are you gonna tell me she’s not my best friend?” I asked.

“One very simple fact: you want to fuck her.”

“What? No, I don’t!”

“Yeah… you do… badly.”

This continues for almost an hour. I deny it, he insists that the friendship is tainted because I want to fuck her.

“Anytime a man and a woman think they’re ‘friends,’” he said, air-quoting, “they’re fooling themselves because one of them always wants to fuck the other. It doesn’t need to be mutual. If one of them wants to fuck, the relationship is tainted. Kind acts, trust, whatever, they all become corrupted by the desire to slap hams.”

“Bullshit!” I replied.

“Fact,” he answered.

---

Although I don’t agree with his premise, he’s right about one thing—I do want to fuck her. I have for the last year. What started as a casual, platonic relationship soon became one of shared secrets. It started when I shared my post-divorce struggles with mental health. She was the only support I had. Then she shared how she was trying to cope with the trauma of a toxic ex who wouldn’t leave her alone. Each shared secret tightened our bond. We were so close. The relationship was platonic—it stayed that way for almost six years—but things began to change, for me anyway. After a late-night work session, we walked to the parking garage together. For the last hour, we’d been talking about something shitty my ex had done. We stood by her car, continuing the conversation.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be free of her, Dani. I feel so alone all the time, like there’s this ache that won’t go away. I just want… shit, forget it.”

She took my hand. The warmth that spread through me took me by surprise.

“No, don’t do that. Say what you want,” she said.

I closed my eyes, trying to deny what my body was screaming.

“Touch,” I blurted out. “I miss the touch of someone who actually wants to be around me.”

Her eyes softened and her grip tightened. I don’t know if it was empathy or pity, but it stirred something in me—something I couldn’t name. I hated it—I didn’t want pity—but I longed for it at the same time. I couldn’t deny how it made me feel… or where I felt it. She pulled me into an embrace, the kind that lingers just long enough to make you wonder. She held me tight, her cheek pressed against mine. As we slowly released each other, there was a moment of physical closeness that shook me. For that sliver of a second, I swore she was going to lean in and kiss me—and I was shaken by how much I wanted it to happen. It dissolved as quickly as it had begun. She smiled, said something reassuring, got into her car, and left. Everything changed for me that day, and I’ve wanted her ever since.

---

“Tell her how you feel, man!” Jules said. “She probably wants you too!”

“No way. Fuck that noise. She’s in a relationship now and she’s happy. I’m not about that.”

“With that guy you told me about? Come on, dude! He’s a joke!”

“No. I don’t play with that shit—I don’t cheat, you know that.”

He huffed in frustration.

“You gotta do something, bro. This is tearing you up. You don’t have to make it a huge thing. Use your words! You’re a killer writer! Write a love letter, fucker! You don’t even have to sign it. I know you—that shit will do you some good.”

I really hate when that son of a bitch is right.

So, I wrote her a letter—one that would leave a mark.

---

I’m watching you now, Dani. You’re wearing the skirt that hugs your hips so tight it makes me jealous of the fabric. And that tight, white blouse—the one that skates the line between classy and lethal. You’re wearing your hair up today, showing off your long, slender neck. It’s after lunch, so you’ve tucked your high heels under your desk and are showing off your feet. I wonder if you know how sexy you are—or what you do to me every day. Do you know about the scenes I create in my mind while watching you work? Or how last week I had to duck into the men’s room to take care of myself after watching you on your knees picking up that spilled box of paper clips? Do you want to know what I thought about doing to you?

It was me who knocked that box off your desk. It was me on my knees, retrieving them one by one while you watched. When I tried to stand, you held me down—pressed your bare foot against my chest. Curling your toes, you begged me to touch them—begged with your eyes. I kneaded your sole with my thumbs, dragged my tongue between your toes. You tucked your heel behind my shoulder, your skirt creeping higher, and pulled me down between your knees. On all fours, like your obedient puppy, I drew your scent into my lungs—honeysuckle and raw arousal. Your lips silently pleaded for me to taste you, for my tongue to cleave you, my fingers to rip out the moans hiding deep in your chest. Your legs opened wider, and I stayed on my knees, because this is worship—this is church. Your fingers fisted my hair, pulled me farther into your shadowed sanctuary. My lips traced hungrily, growing closer to the soft, dark hollow where your thigh curved inward—and pressed my tongue deep into your wet heat. I dove deeper; your moans sent vibrations against my lips. With your mound trapped between my finger and tongue, you flooded my mouth, unashamed. I closed my eyes as you dripped from my lips, silently praying.

You are my hymn.

Your curves are my benediction.

Your breasts are my psalm.

Your lips are my supplication.

- Always yours, in silent devotion.

I finished this three days ago. I don’t know how many versions of it I’ve written. It must be nearly a dozen by now. This is the only one I haven’t burned. Every time I read it, I ache—but not from sorrow. Maybe tomorrow will be the day I leave it on her desk.

©2026 T. Vale