His fingers caress the skin on her back, tracing along the lines of her shoulder blades and down the length of her spine. Their bodies are twisted within white bed sheets, surrounding their limbs and heated flesh as they calm their breaths. Her bones continue to tremble from his doing, eyes still closed from the euphoric sensation in her blood. She can’t help but nibble along the edges of her lips, unable to resist the memory of both their bodies moving against the other. She could still feel herself pulsing between her thighs, and her chest pounding to the rhythm of the rain dripping against the window pane.
But it’s been hours, hours since she called her husband, hours since she decided to spend a night with a man she knew long ago. She had a feeling it would come to this, that if they saw each other again and she lets him speak to her, lets him whisper in her ears and caress the midst of her back, lets him touch her cheeks and kiss the curves of her neck, she knew she could never go back, she could never resist. But those words; the charm, his touch, the warmth, his eyes, the hunger—how could she not cave in, how could she not fall into the tension that she herself craves?
She opens her eyes and becomes aware of the room, his presence, the intoxicated aroma consuming her lungs. She then sits up from the bed, let his hand fall to his side once she turns and moves her legs to the edge of the mattress.
“I must go,” she whispers.
He sits up as well, “Go?”
She nods, sighing in the silence between them. It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? Her husband must be worried, her friends must have questions, her neighbors must be suspicious.
“You know you want this, you want me. Don’t pretend this doesn’t exist,” he says. She feels his breath on her shoulder from behind, tasting the fibers of her skin with his delicate tongue. He always does this; knows what she wants and what she shouldn’t have.
She helplessly sighs while his lips continue to kiss along her neck, moving the strands of her hair to the side, gently teasing her flesh. She bites back a moan and begins to shake her head.
“We can’t do this,” she gestures to her wedding band resting on top of the dresser, questioning her intentions. “Do you not feel ashamed of what we’re committing?”
He sighs, saying her name in a tone too perfect, she could feel it between her thighs, “Does this not feel right to you? Have you not thought about me at all? Have you not thought of me when you’re with your husband, when he touches your neck or sleeps next to you in a cold bed, when he fucks you on the dinner table or kitchen counter tops?”
She can’t deny his accusations because all of which are unfortunately true. She thinks about him way more than she actually should, in moments when she actually shouldn’t. She told him about the nights she had with her husband, and the days when they argued and caused a distraction in her everyday routine. Still, she shouldn’t be in this bed, moaning to another man’s touches, and screaming another man’s name that isn’t her husband’s.
She gets up from the bed. She needs space to figure out these thoughts. She doesn’t make any sudden movements, however, but instead, stares at nothing, a complete empty abyss, feeling torn between two lives and two men who don’t know what it is like to be a woman.
She doesn’t say much for a while and hears the bed shuffle, his lean body against her bare back, his breaths corrupting her ears, his fingers grazing the length of her arms.
“Tell me,” he whispers. “You don’t need to feel ashamed. Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me. Because I want you.” He turns her around, walking forward so her back can be pressed up against the wall, his lips and chest against hers, “Tell me. Say it.”
She sighs as his teeth scrapes across her bottom lip, tempting her, teasing her. Her husband could honestly care less, if she thinks about it. He has never cherished her when they made love, has never kissed her goodbye before heading off to work, has never told her he loves her before going to bed, and barely even notices the tears running down her cheeks when she cooks him dinner after a long shift. But this man, right in front of her, has always been there when she needed him to be, has confessed how much he cares for her through moans of pleasure and full kisses under the moon.
His eyes begin to reflect a a certain darkness, a thirst quenching in the pit of his soul. He knows.
“You want me, don’t you?” he whispers. “I can feel it in your body, in your silence, in the way you protest your own desires. I’m correct, aren’t I?”
She can’t help but nod, feeling guilty and yet satisfied at the same time. She does want him, all of him, everything, everything that her husband is not. She whispers “yes” into his mouth, breathing against his chest, beginning to crave his body, crave him.
She feels his smile against her lips, “I know you do. You don’t want your husband. You want me.”
He suddenly brings his hand up and slowly wraps his fingers around her throat, causing her to gasp in arousal. Her soul awakens and she feels a different kind of hunger arise in her being, needing him to touch her again, feel her again, fuck her again. She looks at him this time, directly into his eyes, saying what he wants to hear, “I want you. Only you.”
“And?” He begins kissing her and then grazing his lips down her chin to the spot behind her ear, pressing her against the wall as his other hand moves elsewhere.
She gasps, closing her eyes as a moan escapes her throat, feeling him grip her harder, “I’m yours…and…will always be…yours.”
“And what did we say about your husband? What is he?” he kisses down to her breasts and along the length of her torso, her body squirming against his tongue. She doesn’t answer and he pauses, looking up to make sure she says what he wants to hear.
“What is he? Please, tell me,” his voice hardens, biting his lip as he keeps his distance from the space between her legs. She opens her eyes to look at him, feeling something inside ache for him, but also hesitate to answer. But she knows what she wants, believes in what she is saying, giving him permission to take her.
“Nobody,” she whispers. “He’s nobody. He’s not you.”
He chuckles against her belly button and sucks her skin as he closes in on intimate, forbidden places. He then lifts her up so her legs are wrapped around his hips, gently slamming her back against the wall so that he can begin devouring her mouth, taking her again and again and again, making her scream into red walls and black edges, until the sun rises in East village.
As they lay there together for hours, catching their breaths and faded moans, their bodies drenching and dripping with sex, she hears him whisper, “Good girl,” before falling fast asleep.
Orginially published by my pen name, Celena Woods, on https://celenawoods.wixsite.com/mypersonalescape