Not A Sweet Summer Romance
I love seeing winter people in the sun, and I knew that’s what he was. I recognised my soul in him. Another lazy black cat lounging on a hot roof. Brown skin, dressed in layers of gauzy black, with a storm in his eyes. A man I wanted naked and cold and raw.
Seagulls call through the open window in the morning. Summer sears through the white lace hanging over a four-poster bedframe, covering us in embroidered sunlight. Skin to skin. His erect cock brushes against my bare hip. He slides his thigh between my legs.
“Late October,” he says, his lips on my shoulder. His eyes are like coals against my skin, making me boil from the inside.
“Mid-November,” I respond, letting my eyes flutter closed. With a hand in my hair, his fingers stroking my scalp, he moves my head to look back at him.
“So that makes you a…” he says, searching.
“That makes both of us Scorpios,” I smile.
“Ah,” he says, his eyes on my lips. “The bad ones.”
My laugh vibrates against the places where we touch, and heat swells in my lower stomach. He is an ocean of contradiction, drowning me in poetic melancholy. His gaze paints the length of my naked body like he’s studying a sculpture.
Our dynamic has been strange. While the attraction was instant, the trust was not. An intense longing for each other that burned over dinners, late-night swims, conversations about everything besides ourselves.
All of his delights were dangerous to me. He was soft-spoken. Kind. Patient and intense and dark and rough, and when he smiled, my belly filled with butterflies. They battered against me until I felt sick.
Summer is haunted by the slow-moving honey of time. The inevitable plummet of reality that catches you off-guard at the apex of a cliff. Not for us. We saw it coming.
My love-life before him hung heavy on my shoulders. Heated nights followed by unanswered texts, empty promises. Ghosts.
I was too sensitive for it, so I’d decided to let an attraction scratch at me, without breaking skin. I wore a coat of craven apathy with a mask of indifference. And when he touched me, he tore right through it. So I put it back on.
It wasn’t dance he cared for; he was a man who knew what he wanted. We were treading water in a current that swallowed us whole, both unwilling to be honest enough to save each other. We were ghosts together.
We’ve answered every single one of each other’s questions, cautious not to say more than the other. I felt I knew very little about him; he even less about me. And yet, I felt closer to him than anyone in the world. It infuriated me.
We were both wary, circling each other with caution, until our bodies relented. We weren’t a puzzle, as much as we were a tempest of erotic exploration. I didn’t know that modern love could feel this bloodthirsty.
“I don’t believe in astrology,” he says. His cock twitches against me, hard and hot and dangerously focused.
“Me neither,” I say.
Watching him watch me, I feel stripped bare and fleshless. Both beauty and gore. I wanted it all. I couldn’t resist even if I tried.
I reach for him, dragging the tip of my nail down the skin of his neck, imagining drawing blood, spilling less than a drop of what he could draw from me.
His lids lower, long lashes spreading shadows over the tops of his cheeks. A feminine touch amidst the roughly masculine planes of his nose and jaw.
He grinds his thigh against my cunt, and my fingers curl, leaving lines of white where I nearly pierced skin.
He sucks in a quick breath, dragging his hand across my stomach, and higher, taking my breast.
As my lips part, he slides his tongue inside my mouth. The pressure of his thigh against my clit is the most perverse torture. We will never be close enough. I kiss him back, a moan burning at the back of my throat, as I grind against his leg.
He matches my rhythm, with lips and teeth and wandering hands. His palms massage my breasts, fingers brushing delicately against my nipples, hardened at his attention.
Every point of contact feels like I need more.
The hair of his thigh tickles the bareness of my pussy, as if it were my own. As if we shared the same skin.
He’s kissing me deep enough that I can taste the lingering sweetness of fresh summer fruit, the tang of wine from the bottle we shared.
He slides a hand down my stomach, all the way to my cunt, bald for the summer, a mixed media portrait of bikini tan lines and salty streaks of lust. He touches his fingers to my lips. He touches me, as I dream about his hands…
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