He said he couldn’t want me, but in the blurred morality of morning, I tiptoed into his bedroom. I had dreamt of him — opening his mouth with my lips to slip a tongue into the wetness, feeling the rough edges of his teeth against my furred probe. My body awoke dripping with its favorite sauce.
As I lay down on his bed, him under me over the covers, a softening rasp of breath told me that he knew I was there. I counted out the seconds before he wrapped himself around me, nestled my small-bodied self into his, tangled our feet. My backbone to his chest. My hips to his pubis. And he was hard. The slow grind of our bodies charged the room. His scent went male, sharp, a tang of vast sea and violent desire. I became the vessel turning to press against him. Sliding nipple to nipple. Each pubic hair straining for a corresponding tendril. I sucked in his breath. He positioned himself to feel more of me, slippery and warm. The room’s fragrance, a mix of moistures, was the only butter worth spreading on good bread. Our femurs locked all the while I sucked his fluid, pulling more and more until I knew I would drown in the salty wild.
For the sweetest instance, we lay before he wrenched away swearing.
In our separate rooms, we dressed to cover up. I joined the breakfast table first. When he arrived downstairs, the group was complete. We laughed and joked then suddenly became serious as I gathered my belongings to leave.
I called that night to see if he was okay. In whispers he admitted his secret, that after I left, he sneaked into my borrowed bedroom, inhaling the scent of my body and hair from the blankets. The disembodied words grew softer, slowly traveling the fifteen miles between us until there was either much more or nothing to say.
This morning, he flew away to a woman, both of them walled but bound together by a lack of want. Inhaling I dove under, to the still, dark bottom of my ocean of memory. And exhaled.
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