By
this point, I know full well I can’t quit this guy so when I made plans to drop
by his house last night, nothing was unclear about the nature of that visit.
-----
I’ve
fallen back into bed with him because I can’t be bothered to restart my search.
What makes me curl my toes has him groaning into my ear, and there are too many
of them to count—why go through the same song-and-dance number when he’s pinned
me to the mattress with his mouth right then, right now? I could rehash the
sequence of events in the weeks following his elaborate apology letter, but I’ve
already talked myself hoarse about it to other people and spaces that aren’t
here. This is for when I’ve made the decision, the recount of the before,
during, after, and everything in between. I’m tired of making excuses. I simply
want his hands on me.
And
if our interactions seem guided by baser intentions than before, that’s because
they are. With any pretenses of dating or romance out of the way, I’m obvious
in my lust, an altogether more manageable variable in an arrangement made
richly volatile by the new, potential baggage he and I both bring in. Without
(his) pressure to emotionally open myself up, there’s only the heat and sweat generated
between two bodies pressed tight together, reluctant to break apart for fear of
allowing another situational wrench to set us at odds again. This could be the
worst call I’ve made this year. This could be the best. Or it could be another
call made in the running timeline of my romantic and sexual endeavors that I
won’t examine until all’s been said and done.
For
now, he lays me flat on the bed, hooks my legs over his arms, and leans in to
breathe the heavy scent between my thighs. I’ve come to his house on my period
and warned him off of putting his mouth there. Up until this moment, he’s kept
away, but the towel rubs soft under my back as he drags my hips closer, his
eyes lingering on the darkest corners of myself. A second passes; he mutters a
curse under his breath and dips his head down. A sharp intake of breath then
fills the room, and I realize that it’s mine.
He
can’t stop touching me. I can’t stop touching him. His fingers spread and curl
and dig deep for me to rock back against, my face buried in a pillow to stifle
my moans. When he slides all the way in, I sink my teeth into his shoulder,
sucking the freckled skin there to leave a mark in the morning, and it hurts
god it hurts, but it’s a familiar hurt from months ago, a pain I’ve wanted to
revisit, but the tight, aching fullness of him can’t possibly hurt worse than
what he had dealt me with his absence.
Afterwards,
my roaming, restless hands map the shape of his chest while his palm fits over my
waist. I inhale the muted, comfortable smell of his deodorant in the curve of
his neck, and he drops kiss after kiss in my tangled hair, my damp forehead, my
red, wet mouth. I should have left immediately—that’s the protocol, isn’t it?
But I’ve stayed, and pressed myself against the whole length of him, and curled
my shoulders towards his, and let him catch me up in his arms where his music
note tattoos come in and out of view, wordlessly playing a song I have yet to
hear in its entirety.
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