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. 

When I first saw him, I thought of Frankenstein's creature: “When I looked around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster?”

With love and fear, the threat of undying devotion. 

Hovering between Gothic literature and modern romance novels, I couldn’t help feeding my mind the idea of a meet-cute. My sweet, sexy summer romance. 

He’s a tall man, lean and byronic. He’d placed himself like an oil painting at a cafe table, holding a thin cigarette between guitar player fingers. I’d realised my mistake the moment I’d said hello, drawn to him as I was. An insect to the sweetness of rot. It was an unquiet attraction, as destined and inescapable as a moth in moonlight. 

I’d held his hands in my palms, my nipples hard through my bra, my heart racing. I ran a nail along his love line, reading him as I would a book, scratching my name between his pages. I was already missing him in the moments we’d first met. 

I’m reminiscing as those beautiful fingers enter me, parting my folds to find the tiny nub of my clit, swollen and sensitive from my mind and his nearness. 

He’s gentle as he circles his middle finger around my most sacred place. He slides his fingers inside me, bringing my own wetness back to my clit, stroking me with myself, as we begin to melt together.

Whatever breath I have enters his mouth in moans, and he pours it back into me. I squeeze my thighs around him. My hand is wrapped around his neck, squeezing his throat with my rising pressure. 

We move with the pulling and pushing of the ocean's tide. He fingers me deeply, and I am helpless, a drowned and desperate woman attaching herself to nothing but the waves. My thighs are tight as I’m drawn closer and closer to climax.

His chest rises and falls, an empire of emotions, while he makes my legs shake with the destruction, stringing my body like a weapon. 

Even though I am expecting it, it drenches me in ice when he releases my clit. He pushes a palm against my hip to still my writhing. Delaying my pleasure. I buck against his leg as he pulls his mouth from mine.

My fingers curl in his hair, as he covers me with his body. He’s so heavy, and I am mist, wishing he could fall right inside me and stay. 

He kisses my neck, bracing his hands on either side of my head. Tension rolls through him as my hands slide down his back, his sides, settling on his abs. He closes his eyes, and warm satisfaction pours through me as I see what I do to him. 

My fingers trail the line of hair below his navel, down the cuts of his Adonis belt. His jaw tightens. 

The skin of his cock is as tan and rosy as the rest of him. He hovers above me, thick and hard, utterly masculine. 

With a rush of longing, I wrap my hand around his length. He hisses when I squeeze. I give him a slow, gentle tug. He is so hot and smooth. 

I’m pulsing, thinking of how it would feel inside me. 

I run my hand down to the base and all the way back up. His head is wet with precum, and I drag my thumb over his slit. 

He’s shaking, his biceps flexed on either side of my face. I grab him at his base, and move him towards where I need him. 

I slide my pussy back and forth along his shaft, getting him slick and wet, lifting my hips off the bed. He drops to his forearm, resting his forehead against mine. Our fingers intertwine where they meet on his cock. There’s saltwater and cigarette smoke on his skin, and I gasp down the taste of him in audible breaths.

We’re achingly still as the tip of his cock slips inside me, the first taste of the fullness I would endure. 

He leaves soft kisses along my face, eyelids, cheeks, and mouth as he pulls out slowly. Diving deeper with each stroke. I whimper as he cuts me open, filling me slowly, breathing life into me, until half of his length disappears inside me. 

We both watch it happen. The whole world stops to watch. I’m so full it burns. He moves my hand to his hip. He drags a hand behind my head, holding me by a fistful of hair at my nape, and then he fucks me.

Skin against skin. I cry out. A scrape of teeth. He is uncompromising, brutal, so intense that I’m fighting for purchase. My nails dig into his biceps, and a shudder rolls through him as his body moulds into mine, as he becomes mine. 

Mine. He’s mine. Every thrust ignites and engulfs me with a harsher hunger that only his next thrust can sate. He opens me, shows me his throat, and lets me feed. 

He’s too much and not enough. I am a gaping chasm of desire; he is the sea, he is the sand, together we are the salt of life. He makes me an animal. I want to escape his primal fucking, and I want to sink my teeth into his shoulder and fuck him back, harder. 

I want to rip him apart with the fury that I can’t have all of him. It enrages me that he will forever be outside of me, unless we’re here, like this, mating like beasts. We are an alchemical love fighting for a place between time. 

His pelvis grinds against mine, a dark, molten heat spreading from my clit throughout my body. Our breaths are all throat, the heavy sounds he’s making in my ear bringing me even closer to climax. 

He is a quiet man but a frenzied lover. My legs coil around him like a python around prey. Trying to get him deeper, trying to make us one. 

My orgasm is so violent, it chatters my teeth. Pleasure tingles from deep within me, flowing like warm honey throughout my entire body.

I come down, already wanting more, to find him motionless inside of me, observing. He covers my mouth with his palm, while the other hand remains in my hair. This is for him now; my body belongs to him. I acquiesce, limbs tingling with anticipation. 

Being restrained beneath him is rough and delicious. He stays like that, covering my mouth, as he thrusts inside of me, deep and slow. 

I’m still so sensitive that I’m shivering, writhing away from him, but he locks me down with his body, holding me still with his gaze. The pleasure is excruciating, like being set alight. He is both stake and flame. 

His palms restrict my panting, forcing me to focus on breathing deeper through my nose. Instinctively, I clasp my inner muscle, clenching around his cock when he’s deep. He groans, rich and guttural, gripping my hair more forcefully. I squeeze him as he pulls out, not willing to let any part of him escape. His eyes are damp with pleasure, his pupils dilated to possession. Tears fall on my cheeks. 

We are water, he and I. 

We are art, and we are a plague. 

We cannot hold on to each other for too long. 

The orgasm builds from a darker place, somewhere frosted over with cold. It turns my whole body to clay, that he pounds and molds and breaks. He erupts inside of me, his tears falling. I chase him, biting down on his palm with a cry. 

We are not made for a sweet summer romance. If I could be devoured, it’s between his lips that I would desire to dissolve. Until then, he will feed me through to Winter. It’s on my tongue now, and he tastes it when he kisses me. 

“But I already love you.”