Hands go to my shoulders, gently and implacably push me to my knees. I cast my eyes upward and obey. Mouth wide, taste flesh. Lips curled in to sheathe my teeth, hands plunging in a slow rhythm. Watch now. Quick breaths go ragged, hands clutch my hair, voice box utters guttural moans. Taste smokiness, essence leaking.
“Enough. Jesus, X.” A curse, more rare still than a smile.
Suddenly, I’m airborne, carried into my room and tossed unceremoniously onto my bed. I scramble backward, knock aside pillows, but I’m too slow. Lip curled in a snarl, eyes feral, hands reaching and gripping my hips. Tugging me roughly, and my heart leaps a mile from chest to throat as hips wedge my thighs apart. Face to face?
I dare not think, dare not even hope. Breathe, cling to broad hard shoulders... exhale sharply as I am pierced.
Movement, face to face.
I can’t breathe.
This is a night for firsts, it seems.
I dare to flutter my hips to the rhythm of our sex, dare to keep my eyes open and see. There is turmoil. Desire. Conflict. Heated need. Demand. Fire. Urgency.
And also in me?
I shy away from parsing and enumerating my own emotions. To do so would be to open Pandora’s box, and I dare not.
Desperate movement now. Eyes on mine. Unwavering, piercing directness. There is a world in those dark orbs, a whole galaxy a mere mortal such as I cannot fathom.
Close.
So close.
Breath leaves me. Neither of us looks away.
Oh God.
Hands claw and clutch, grip and tug and bruise.
“Fuck. Fuck!” And then total absence. Everything ripped away, heat, presence, breath, body.
The moment is gutted.
“Caleb? Did I do something wrong?”
That huge body stands at the window, silhouetted, erotic male sexuality in shadow, shoulders bowed, head bent, hands wide and high on the frame, hips narrow and trim, buttocks firm and clenched and bubble-round and taut looking, legs like Grecian pillars. Shoulders heaving.
“Over here, X.” A command, uttered so low as to be nearly inaudible.
I hear it, though, for I am painfully attuned to every whisper, every breath.
I rise, move tentatively to the window. Touch a shoulder with trembling fingers. “Are you okay? Was it me?”
“Shut up. Stand at the window.” So unexpectedly harsh. Almost angry.
At me?
I dare not question again. That tone brooks no argument.
I stand at the window, shaking all over. Turn my head, look over my shoulder. Oh. That face, cast into shadow now, but not the shadows of absent light, rather the shadows of veiled emotion, features smoothed into unfeeling stone. Only the lips slightly pursed and tightened betray the tumult within.
I shake with cold, goose bumps pebbling on my skin.
A foot nudges mine apart, and then arms like boa constrictors snake around my chest, clutch my breast, another around my waist to clutch my hip. Behind me, bent at the knee, a moment to fit that hot thick erection to my opening, and then a hard upward, inward thrust. I gasp, a shrieking exhale of surprise and pain. So hard, so sudden, so rough.
No gentility here, no tenderness. None of the eroticism of only moments ago. This is what I’ve always known. Roughly thrusting, roughly using. Grunts in my ear.
