You sit astride him in silence and watch his face, overtired. You feel the soft heat that radiates from him, the way he burns, constantly. You watch him rub his eyes with bruised fingers, and he takes a few seconds to focus back on your face.
You touch his chest, his shoulders, trace the patterns and words along his skin like you were almost drawing them yourself, running fingers over the scars of his honesty and spirit.
He always said you had healing hands. You run your palms flat along his ribs, thumbs following the ridges and dips, slowly, savouring, travelling and coming to rest at the impossible grooves in his hips.
He watches as you study him, knowing he likes the extra weight of you holding him down, taking away his excuses to get up and go and be and do.
CM Punk doesn't rest. Exhaustion lives inside him and its something you can never understand. You look at his face, the hard line of his jaw, the miserable tension in his mouth; and protectiveness blooms and flowers in you like blood in water. You want him to be better. You want to be the one who fixes him. You are desperate for this.
You trace your fingers in an arc across his stomach, strong and smooth. Straight Edge. The breeze blows the curtains and light splinters into the room but you barely notice. He shifts underneath you, a noise in his throat like he wants to ask you something but can't get the words out – maybe doesn't think its even worth trying.
The seconds tick away as you try to hold every moment in your chest before it all ends, every sense, the smell of spilled soda and hotel shampoo, the heat of him beneath your thighs, the taste of him, sweet, salty and sharp.
'I don't want to go,'
'Then don't,' he says, voice hoarse.
He swallows, tilting his head to the side, just looking up at you. He means it. You can see the tension building in his shoulders, preparing to rebuild all the walls that only you can tear down.
He rests his hands on the sides of your thighs, smoothing his thumbs in tentative circles. You inhale deeply through your nose and shift above him, tilting your hips forward just a little. The curtains billow again and he stills in the sudden brightness. As it fades you take his hands in yours and lean forward, crushing them both to your chest. You kiss him slowly, lightly, dimly aware that he's not kissing back.
You release his hands and touch his jaw, feeling the rough stubble so like yours, fingers trailing to just behind his ear. You press down gently with your thumb, right on his tattoo and down the strong tendon in his neck and you feel his mouth fall open under yours.
You slide your tongue over his, so slowly you realise this feels like goodbye.
His hands slip from under your chest and come to rest on your forearms, as if he would prize you away if he had the strength or the will. You press your hips down into his, heat unfurling through your stomach. His mouth breaks from yours and he breathes against your lips.
'I don't ever want to leave this room.'