you are my life, my love my only
It's like a dam has been broken.
She spent so much time repressing her desire for him, tried to concentrate on Steven, pretending that she didn't imagine the burn of his hands and the glide of his lips and how his body would feel pressed against hers, building up walls to keep the thoughts of him at bay. So many nights tangled in her own sheets as she levees gave away and she was forced to swallow down the broken syllables of his name while she touched herself, her fingers too slim and lithe, palms too familiar. She wanted him from the start. From the moment he looked up at her with those bright, wonderful eyes, she knew. Knew she'd eventually fall in love with him.
She didn't know it'd be like this though. She had no idea that once she'd had him- knew what it was like to be kissed by him, to feel the bulk of his body pressing her down into the mattress, to watch his face as he tipped over the edge with her name on his tongue- that the desire would only increase. That want would become need. That the idea of going a day without his lips and his arms, his palms branded to the swel of her hips, would make her stomach churn, her muscles ache.
It's an addiction, she thinks. Within a few years, she's become addicted to him. To the rough timbre of his voice. The way his fingertips spark like flint against the hard ridges of her bones, sink into the fleshy dips of her curves. How he covers her, fills her, blurs the edges of her world with the glide of his tongue and the thrust of his hips.
He laughs when she follows him into the shower, calls her insatiable as he presses her up against the slick tile, sinks his teeth into the soft curve of her shoulder. He gasps when she brushes the back of her hand over him in the living room while having tea with her mother, her name a stranged rasp in his throat. His moan echoes in the cave of her open mouth when she pushes him up against the wall in a dark corner of a bar, his hands wrapping around her tighs as she climbs his body, desperate to be closer.
The more she has, the more she wants. It's never enough. There's never enough of his skin, his mouth, his warmth. She wants him constantly; it burns in her veins, an eternal flame incinerating her from the inside. She crumbles when he touches her, the ashes of her self-control scattering in the wake of his hot breath over her neck.
Sometimes the fear creeps in, the worry that she's giving him too much, revealing secrets with the arch of her back and the wanton twist of her hips. But when she finds him staring at her with hunger in his eyes, when she feels his feral growl vibrate against the delicate skin of her inner tigh, when his body surges into hers, fast and rough and so fucking good- she knows it doesn't matter. He's ruined her with his mouth and his hands and his love. But it's okay.
She's ruined him too.