The ones who love
I was going to kiss him. His lips pulled me to them like a black hole, calling me like water calls a camel. They looked soft, like fresh meat yet to smell the wind that led it to the grill, and I wanted to eat them.
I held onto his shirt, soft under my grip, running loose under my desperate arousal and his gentle attempts at resistance. He made me feel strong, but that was a lie. He just loved my body pressed against his, enough to keep his brain in the backseat.
His eyes were like a raging wildfire, burnt me to a crisp. While he barely moved, those black eyes filled my mind with things he could do to me and in all the ways he could do them. All he needed was to feel what I felt. So I took that kiss. His tongue and all.
It was electrifying. I shuddered before I knew it. My moan slipped through my lungs before I could shroud them in a suppressed whimper. But he tasted like orange, like sugar soaked in candies of a million tries, retries, and perfection. He tasted like something that wholly belonged to someone else.
Maybe I should have known; that nothing this good stays on the shelves this long. Or maybe I did know but just didn't care, because I already knew I'd take him and make him smell of roses and taste like berries; like me.
“We should stop…” he groaned, as if battling a regret yet to be his own. Pushing his face from the heat of mine shrouded in raging urges, he gasped, his chest pumping like an extension of mine. Lifting me off of him like a doll weighing a branch, he stood and went for the wall, resting against it. I felt the pain in my chest akin to all heartbreaks I have ever felt before now. “I liked you. I really did. But I have a girlfriend now. I shouldn't have come here.”
There was a dawning horror throbbing against my chest as his footsteps headed for the door in urge-defiant stomps. My old house squeaked against his leaving presence, groaning at the growing absence. His scent was still everywhere. And it suffocated me. I wanted him. Needed him back. Even if I had to steal him.
Why did it hurt? Because I know the one who took him off the shelf? Or because I don't have the heart to steal him from her expensive purse and polished-nailed grip? Or is it because he is too expensive to keep to myself now? Should I have told him the truth; of how ruthless I could be to get him back?
Contd: https://wp.me/p9IsXE-11Y
