A Weekend Named Desire

I didn’t expect to remember his smell. His skin. It smells familiar. Maybe because it is—or rather, it was. Back when we were both just teenagers, fumbling our way through college and twisted twin sheets. I barely knew my own body then. He barely grew stubble then. But while so much has changed in ten years, the smell of his skin remains the same.

His hands are on my hips now, cupping them firmly yet purposely. He’s not aggressive but he is in control. Just the way I like it.

I can’t think straight anymore with him this close to me. So close, we have nowhere to look but each other’s eyes. All I can see is the reflection of my own in his pupils, watching them swell as I feel him swell against me. I want his lips on mine but I wait. I wait and I beg him without words. My breath is already short. My heart pounds with anticipation and suddenly my hands are tingling—I can’t resist touching his bare chest. Doing so sends an electric shock through my body, pulsing from my fingertips, catching in my throat. I shudder but he doesn’t flinch. His grip gets stronger. And I tilt my chin up, ever so slightly.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. This isn’t where our story starts.

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