We didn’t waste too many words on the last day he was in
town. I met him on the front porch, acknowledged his presence with a nod, and
walked past toward the garage door. He has a soft footfall so I could barely
hear him following me down the stairs to his room. Once the door closed, I
methodically removed my jewelry (ring, bracelet, necklace), lifted his glasses
up to place them on the desk, turned to wrap my arms tight around his neck, and
the rest of the motion blurred into a feverish attempt to hold on to each other
as tightly as possible.
I remember sensory items like his grip on my wrists while my
back was against the wall, the harsh rhythm of our breaths in the afternoon
silence, my underwear dangling off of one foot after being ruthlessly yanked
down my legs, his heavy, distinct scent filling my nose, and shortly afterward,
my own tart, tangy flavor sliding from his mouth to mine.
We were rough. I bit him harder than I normally would, and
he left bruises on the insides of my thighs (like small, blue polka dots.) The
force of my first orgasm brought me to the edge of tears that I only managed to
choke back before he saw. It was neither the best nor the last—only the last
for a long time.
-----
When he slid in too quickly, I winced and hissed. “You’re
hurting me.”
We held still, allowing for my body to accommodate him.
“You’re hurting me,” I repeated, softer, gentler, and it
sounded like a sigh.
His words came in hot, damp puffs into the crook of my neck.
“I’m sorry I’m hurting you.”
“It’s okay.” My hand cradled the back of his head. “I know
you didn’t mean to.”