note: thank you for the reception on counting pulses. a bit nervous about that one. to address my lack of capitalization, it's just a style. i promise i know my grammar. also, if any more of you decide to send me a message, requesting for a brief review? don't feel sheepish. i'd be happy to leave one. a could-be sequel to counting pulses but really not. just another abstracted moment, sex. good stuff.
in rapture, in afterglow
a romantic egoist
• •
in darkness, in liquored haze, she falls down onto the bed and breathes deeply, capturing the air around her between her lips, cool and slated blue. he crawls over her and hovers, her legs between his, hands imprisoned. dead end. breathe. the tension, the space – here, here, and here. breathe. she inhales another because she forgets, and he chuckles low and briefly, deep and lazy. there is nothing funny here.
twenty-two and twenty-three years young. nervous anticipation, heart building, temperature rising. twenty-two and twenty-three with antique eyes. he strokes her cheek, her mouth, and presses his own against hers. softly, she breathes, shaky and awkward and is this okay? but her words – her words, they drown, as he swallows them, pushing tongues, her fingers grasping and tangling in the chain of his necklace, always moving and never still.
when he pulls away, she kisses his neck, buries her head in the space where he can't see her, and his hands find the hem of her shirt and lifts, peels her moth-dress away and she with him. they're limbs and limbs, outstretched and angled, mouths and skin and heat, war, and silver.
when he slides in, she cringes and buckles, clutching at his back. he kisses her collar and she relaxes; he moves in patterned formation, she arches, and they're magnetic. positive and negative, a brief collapse into one, a one second crash. breathe, he reminds her. she breathes into him, fluttering thin and beautiful and he can't see. stars and stars and stars.
he moves again; she follows. clings to him, cat-like and elegance and electric ethereality. blue blue and mint moss, cool breath along her shadowed bones, fingers along her shadowed spine. she hides her whisper-screams into the hollow of him and he listens to her sighsigh and oh. she holds on, nails scraping across his back and she stops her sounds.
breathe.
and when she says his name, over and over like a broken record, growing faint, faint, and fainter and all she can muster is wordless words that echo against his skin, he presses his lips on her shoulder and nips here and there and against her mouth he breathes citrus and seashells and thistle bells.
she whispers; he listens.
breathe.