Shadows paint the walls with silhouettes that change and move, tease and tangle, rip away from each other, and the light that hits the figures making those shadows is sent glittering over a fine sheen of sweat on bare torsos.
A whimper. A sigh. The wet sound of lips being licked moist. The creak of a spring mattress as bodies move over it.
Reaching fingers, but the other moves backward. Moves away.
Grabs a scarf from the corner of the bed, where it was discarded as if it were a receipt from a corner store. Moves over her, pushes her down when she tries to touch him-
No. Not yet. Not now.
-he ties it around the metal of the headboard, around bound, yielding wrists.
Intent shines through his eyes. They turn into a stormy blue sea, attacked by the darker-than-black whirlpool of his pupils. The other tries to move, but fails to–the black cord wrapped around wrists cut into skin, the tug of the scarf doing nothing to ease it.
Black curls tickle reddened cheeks. Short, hot breaths over the shell of a reddened ear. Blood coursing through her head at the speed of a Lamborghini. Eyes, wide open, and ears, tuned to listen to his few, sharp words.
"Lust," tumbles out of his mouth as a moan, or a sigh, or breath, and it graces an ear. Traces the shell of it. Can feel her eardrum beat in time with the other's syllables. And then it is all that can be thought of–-that word, his voice. How the room grew hotter still, after that one word. A moan from deep within.
A sleight of hand. Touch. Quick, but not frantic. Heat, and then cold. And then again. Friction.
He moves so that their faces align. Their breaths are short and ragged. Lips align. Eyes align. Noses align. His hands on either side. Exhale. Inhale. They exchange breaths without meaning to. The air is the same. Stale. Used up. But they don't move.
Lifts a head, but the other backs away. Again.
Feral eyes. But only eyes. The rest demands for him––closer, friction, more.
Won't give in.
Leans his head in. Grabs the other's head with his right hand, a rough grab. His hands plunge into soft, dense hair. Brings the other close to him. Carbon dioxide makes the other lightheaded. Makes him excited. He leans in. Lips meet, but not in full––only the peak beneath the cupid's bow––and he stops. Hot little silent cries escape from gaping mouths in short gasps. He holds the other like this, and they are kissing but not really; he won't give him what he wants. A few seconds. Then he moves to angle his face to her left ear, and whispers:
"I could do this all night."