There are some moments that stay crystal clear despite the time that passes. The transgressions in behavior that mar my otherwise perfect record. The getaways in shady hotel rooms with a certain high-profile wife, for instance. There were no traces, no witnesses, no pillows attached with long red hairs or short blond ones. They were perfect. Clean. Lapses in judgment meant to be quickly forgotten.
But when I'm laying in bed at night, watching Astoria's shoulders move up and down in perfect rhythm, graceful even in sleep, my mind is wracked with thoughts of then. I can still feel the warmth of the sheets as they pressed down on my bare shoulders, the flush that enveloped my face. Your arm draped over me lazily, searching for my waist, pulling me close, nose to nose. Balancing in the sea of too-white sheets, I closed my eyes and began tracing over the lines of your face, drawing you in the darkness. The crook in your nose, your fluttery eyelashes, the definition of your jaw.
I wanted it all. I wanted to touch you, to taste you, love you, destroy you. I wanted to dig my nails into the pale skin of your back, yank on those fucking blood traitor curls with all of my might, bite down on your little neck until you cried out. I wanted something rough and raw, as long as I was holding all the cards in my hands. I wanted to make you laugh and cry in one breath. Make you shudder with anger and pleasure simultaneously. I wanted to feel the way you grasp me when I touch you just right. I wanted to kiss you senseless, to melt into the hot tongues and frenzied hands. I wanted to bite you and kiss you and bruise you and lick you.
I wanted to possess you. Every inch, every breath. I wanted to own you. I wanted to tame you. I wanted to break you down.
I wanted you to love me most of all.
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