I am completely lost in the hands in my hair. Enamoured with their every twist and tug, each strand sliding through outstretched fingers like water. Fingertips gently massage my scalp, pull my hair back to send kisses to the nerves in my neck, then return to their gentle kneading. My own hands feel so empty, despite the skin they’re holding, because it’s not enough to fill this void I’m experiencing, this insatiable desire carved out by extended foreplay stretched for days, for weeks, until just the thought of it has stolen my focus for hours at a time.
I feel drunk, my senses simultaneously dulled and heightened, my motor skills stunted, but my reflexes still sharp, evidenced by the quick jerks every stroke induces. Each touch, every kiss is a baptism, fresh water engulfing me, washing away all my previous sins, rebirthing me in the eloquence of these fingers, these hands.
I’m soft. Trembling. Barely remembering that it’s necessary to breathe, each inhale and exhale a concerted effort, no longer a natural instinct. Each breath labored by desire so white hot that sweat is raining from my pores.
Soft fingertips on the humid skin of my back, sliding in calculated lines down my spine. First just the pads, then the whole palm, pressing firmly, torso against torso. Just that quickly my skin has gone from hot to cold and I’m shivering, chills racing up my spine and exploding through my brain. My thoughts are casualties. Rendered silent by pure physical instinct, by the entanglement of arms and legs, of breath and hands, the sensation of sliding deeper down into desire so deep, so cavernous, so wide, that light has recessed into merely a memory.
Right now I’d feel guilty if my lips ever said another name.
Whispers in my ear. A potent combination of curses and commands that make my limbs twitch and contract. Before I know it, I’m on my back, wrists gripped together and pressed into the sheets. Kisses rained on my forehead, my lips, over my neck, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. Tiny nibbles on my bottom lip. Gentle sucking that easily becomes more urgent. My own voice is foreign to me, a coarse whisper of moans and unintelligible mumbles, my breath still tangled mercilessly in the cage of my throat. Warm breath on my skin. A soft kiss. The generous offering of tongue, a deeper parting. I’m struggling to maintain some kind of composure, my eyes filling with tears because I’m so damn overwhelmed because everything about this touch, this skin, is just perfect. I’m fighting it, fighting giving in, letting go, and flailing in vain to keep a hold on my last wisps of sanity. Well placed pressure, one hand on my hip.
And I’m gone.
Hours later, I’ve fallen asleep and waken up again, the night still silent around us, the bed still warm from our skin. With every inhale, our intertwined scent rises liberally from my skin. I disentangle myself slightly, but not totally, wrapping my arms around myself, to take in the totality of this very second right here. I can’t help feel, of course, what might be the eventual fatality of it all, and the weight of it pushes me deeper into the safety of the covers. I shake it, but not completely, just enough to resign myself that maybe it isn’t important, that all that matters is that for these few secret moments, the world is still for us, and maybe that’s what we both need.
Arms reach for me and I fold myself into them, so open and raw, exposed to my core and deliriously thankful I’m the only one conscious. It is then that I give credence to the fact that one of us might already be halfway out the door; I just can’t decide which one.