He is here again. I know his careless walk, his restless eyes. He is quiet, leaning aimlessly against the door frame. His eyes are dim, lost, as he lets out a slow breath that might be a sigh. I know what he feels right now, though his thoughts are hidden, always a mystery. But still, I know him, I know he is tired by the jaded expression his eyes hold. I watch him openly from my bed and he catches my gaze. He holds it for a brief moment then, seemingly not finding anything to intrigue him, he detaches himself from the wooden frame and walks to the window. His hand moves the curtain aside and his eyesskim the town square. His features bear discontent, and his mouth sets into a thin line, as the sounds of the choir practicing outside on the main street reach my window. I giggle when I hear Taylor arguing with Patty about the songs selection. I hear his chuckle too, and when our eyes meet, I find him looking at me with small interest and a simple smile touches the corners of his mouth. I roll my eyes, gesturing to the window and raise from my sitting position to shut the blinds. I know we agree that all the fuss is just ridiculous. One more ridiculous event, "End of Summer" festival is coming. These pathetically made up festivities are unneccesary wastes of money. All this town is a waste of air. Being here is a waste of time. He agrees silently.

I touch my index finger to his cheek, and slide it to his throat and there it is again. A glimpse of surprise with traces of guilt registers in his eyes. Only for an instant a flash of some painful memory clouds his brown orbs, and instantly it's gone, pushed out of the way by cold determination. I can't put my finger on the exact cause of this, but for some reason he can't get accustomed to my presence. Especially if I'm gentle with him. I see the despise in his features if I caress his elbow, or stroke his brown curls. He doesn't want care and tenderness. I know exactly what I am to him, what he wants to be for me. It's not the longing looks that make me sweat, nor his tender lips that make me roar. I know a side of him that can't be shown to good girls. Seeing my smirk, he pushes my hand aside roughly, and he glares at me. I shrug and move away. I know him more than I let on.

I sigh quietly turning my eyes sideways, as I try to will him to be oblivious to my study of him. Too often I find myself looking at him instead of looking at my own reflection. He has the curls, the dark eyes and their expression is void, passive. We both know our parts in this play. We are skillful actors in the public's eye. We play them so easily, they are fun to watch. We are the outcasts of this town. We stick together out of spite. Our union is our power. We fight their pretence with brutal cynicism, with absurd indifference. We laugh at their faces and kiss openly, exploring each other and pushing the limits of their patience further and further across every red line they've ever set. We both seem indifferent most of the time, this is our game. We play them, the townies. We play each other as well, but I don't think he suspects that I'm beating him in his own game.

I know he is himself around me, like right now; he pushes his fingers through his hair and plops down onto a vacant chair. He kicks off his shoes, and gives me an empty stare. Silence envelopes us as he gazes quietly. His eyes follow my body line, and I know what he wants. He wants me. He wants me as I am, he wants us as we are. This is only the calm before the storm. Dark are his eyes, and filled with desire or plain lust, I don't care. I'm entrapped by his features, and I like it.

He stands up and goes towards my desk, taking out stuff from his pockets as he goes. He dumps them on the surface and picks up a magazine. It's Cosmo. He throws it aside, turns and now he is half sitting on the desk, watching me comb my hair with my fingers, bored. I wink at him, but it doesn't change his sullen expression. I put the brush back in its' drawer and press play on my stereo. I turn towards him. He's standing now, his eyes focused on mine. He looks like he's made a decision; his features are set, and his eyes flash familiar dangerous flare which makes me warm and expecting, because I know what is bound to happen next. Again.

All it takes is a blink of an eye for him to close the gap, to crush me to him and devour me. It's not the soft caresses that lure me in, it's the raw power of his body pressing into mine, the clutching of my hair in his fists, the feeling of his hands ripping at my clothing, until I'm left bare and burning.

I drag my nails on his chest until he lets out a groan and swists me around, pressing my back to his chest. His hands land on my breasts and his teeth make collision with my neck and I let out a loud moan and shiver involuntary, as he presses me harder into him. He licks my pulse and grips my arms, pulling me towards my desk forcefully. I wriggle one of my hands out of his hold, and turn around to meet his lips. I lick, and bite and I pull, and our teeth clash together as he tries to steal my newfound chance for initiative. His free hand encircles my waist, and his other hand catches my chin. He pulls me into him again and pushes us together backwards into the edge of the desk until my lower back hurts. He is showering me with savage kisses and my free hand is already inside his shirt. We grip each other and I hang onto him as he lifts my legs up and around his hips. I squeeze my thighs hard around his waist. He slams me into the neaby wall, my back absorbs the hit and my body feels very alive.

I'm picturing us from aside; I'm naked and he's fully dressed, I'm searching hungrilly for his mouth and he accepts my need, and kisses me back while grinding me against the rough wall. I know my back is getting sore, and I feel the sweet taste of pain where his hands mould into my body. I push him away, but he isn't bothered and he presses his crutch further into me. So I hit him.

My fists land on his shoulders and he releases my lips instantly. Our eyes meet. His are stormy and concentrated on mine. I get off of him and peel off his shirt. His chest bears the signs of my sharp nails: pink trails from earlier and some tiny scars from yesterday. He surprises me as I find myself landing on the floor suddenly. I think I hurt my knee and I feel tears rushing from under my eyelids. He bends next to me, kneeling and I push him back flat on the floor. He blinks as his head hits the wooden surface and his hand shoots to rub the sore spot. I stop it mid air and redirect it to land beside his head. I squeeze to hurt him, and I climb on him instantly, my lips pressed against his, and my tongue attacking his mouth. Deeper and deeper I plunge, as his hands move my hips back and forth. Tearing myself away from his handsome face, I open his pants as fast as I can and try to remove them. It doesn't work, since I'm still sitting on his thighs. He sits up, his hands are on my hips and he's dragging me towards him, grazing his teeth down my breast. He bites and I can't hold back a scream. There's no use in trying to release myself from his firm grasp. He controls my body. All I can do is feel. Burn.

I want him to disconnect. I know he needs to and even wants to. I know how. I want to make our time together burn itself into his mind, to make a memory of me an exquisite one. I want us to turn into bright flames, into loud thunder, into a tidal wave that crushes and pulls down under. His passion, his hidden strength and his suppressed desires. I want to feel his raw passion. I want to feel bruised and violated. I want to feel. I want him to feel like I feel.

Deciding it's time, I detangle myself from him and pull my sheets off the bed. Smiling seductively I raise from the floor, twisting the sheet into some resemblance of a rope. He moves to kiss my inner thigh, but I push him away. Taking his hands into mine, I pull him to the closest leg of my bed, wrapping the sheet around it and both of his hands. He eyes me a little funnily, but his features change to mild surprise when I yank and tie the sheet tightly. He's at my mercy, but it's misleading because I'm dependant on his hunger and his ability to make me feel this high.

I find myself remembering how he was hesitant at first, never letting things get out of control. But he is who he is, and soon he let go and I let him. I know him, and he knows I can keep a secret, and what might look coarse and vile to an outsider, seems familiar to us. I crave the feeling of liberation when his hands lift me up as if I was a feather and a sensation of sudden submission and pushes me roughly into the bed, covering my body with his. All he needs is to say the words and I am complient. I surrender to his lips. I give in to his exploring fingers and his teeth. Deeper and deeper I fall into the oblivion everytime he entangles his fingers in my hair and pulls me in.

I release him from the floor, and he is on a prowl and I am ready him. He makes his move and I meet him halfway, and we are in some kind of drunken heaven, we are high on each other. It's hypnotic, like a dance. Like in a ballroom of our own, we transcend up above in our tango. But it is not lovers' courting, it's a taming ritual, and neither will give in. We prolong our ecstacy to reach higher than before on its' waves. Melting, flowing, mesmerized by flashes of light, skin to skin sensual secrecy, and pangs of pain which bring us rapturous delusions.

This is fervor.

This is forgetting.

And after our descent, the air is still and there's a faint aroma of sweat and something that reminds of the first time I stole candy from a sweets kiosk on the corner. Cheeks burn and heart is throbbing with elation of success and content. With my eyes closed I listen to him breathe. For a while he's motionless, but just as I begin to relax into him, he moves away. He doesn't speak to me, while picking up his shirt from the floor. He grabs his socks off the chair, and pulls them on. Silently he dresses, looking at nothing in particular and his thoughts are not with me anymore, if they ever were. He turns slightly and runs his hands through his hair, and I watch from the bed because I know that I'm not allowed to do it for him. I'm not allowed to comfort him, and deep conversations are forbidden as well as soothing touches.

He locks his gaze with mine and lets his eyes speak, sparing all the awkward talking that might have been happening right now. I see into him and I know our mutual agreement still stands. Glancing at the clock briefly, he pushes his hands into the pockets and turns on his heel. He walks casually towards the door and grants me with another nonchalant glance. I know I will be seeing more of him, but until then I will be left alone in my solitude. Bowing his head, he takes the last few remaining steps. I watch the empty entrance as I struggle with mixed emotions inside. I will wait until all confusing sensations subdue, until I'm left with the reality. He is gone again.