Thank you muchly to the lovely velocityofsound. Her honesty and kick-in-the-pants...ness made me stop being such a whiny bitch.
I haven't been home in over a day; I've been in the desert and in the lab and haven't had time for a shower. My clothes feel grimy against my skin, as if they're about to crawl away.
But he kisses and licks me anyway, tells me that I taste like dirt and sweat and I know everything that has come out of his mouth up to that point has been the truth. I want to be repulsed at myself, in my current state but he goes on kissing, doesn't care, doesn't care that I'm dirty and tattered and very nearly gone.
I almost wish I was; I wouldn't have to endure this sweet-and-sour torture stealing my skin. Stealing my soul, completely and utterly.
Completely and utterly; I think about the words I'm toiling with, so mundane and romantic and things that I never want to say but he makes me think them and if I wasn't so very wrapped in him I would say them.
Or I wouldn't. And this torture, maybe I wouldn't have to endure that if I had my way. If I was something else, somewhere else I wouldn't want what I want. Wouldn't need what I, jesus, I need it.
If I wasn't so, so … I wouldn't have to listen to him say how sorry he is afterwards, how sorry he is that he can't stay. I wouldn't have to watch him fumble for clothing and shoes and ignore me as he races from my apartment.
What's best, I wouldn't have to pretend to feel empty when he does leave, because I don't, I never do. It always feels as if I've stolen the better end of the deal; it must be, must be better than what he has to deal with.
This time though, I'm really not thinking about how this will end, I'm too busy wrapped up in the heat of this man in this moment. I haven't been home in over a day and he's here with me, making purple marks on my neck, beard burns on my breasts, love bites all over the insides of my thighs.
In bed, what he tells me are the only truths I think I'll ever really hear from him. The 'so good's', the 'please, more's', and certainly the 'you're amazing's', leave me reeling in the moments, making me want to hear him speak those words to me out of bed, in the car, the street. Anywhere.
Anywhere besides the cotton and down and polyester of the sheets that we dirty with our guilt and if this is what love is then I really don't want it to stop. Ever.
My moans are uninhibited, coming straight from my soul, just for him to hear. Those are my secrets, those long expulsions of sound and he takes them greedily. I see it in his eyes; those sounds are his and he knows it.
And I don't care.
His thrusts vary, each time. Mostly, they're ruthless is the most delicate way, tempered only by the fact that he never shies his gazes from mine. He speaks to my face, every time, and like now, I receive it all willingly.
I don't care that he comes in me and he isn't wearing a condom; it's just not something I think about. What I do think about, what I do muse upon is how warm he is inside of me and how he lingers there even after he's gone.
It's sick, but I relish at the feeling of his come in me, even when he does tear away.
I fall asleep hard, wishing I could cry or something aside from feel indifferent. But I don't and I can't dream when consciousness dies off, I just lie there and breathe, not dreaming of him or how I wish he'd let me love him.
He is still there when I wake up, there beside me. Grissom was beside me, asleep, snoring in the most unattractive way and it made me cry. He broke the bank, right there. Doing nothing, lying still he'd broken my heart.
When he woke up, he apologized again, begged me to forgive him for falling asleep and I wondered what he was apologizing before, when he was leaving. I have to wonder because his eyes are different now, and he bit his lip and apologized some more.
It's been months. How can he not know what he wants? How is it he winds up in my bed three times a week, calling my name, his weight pressing me into the mattress, and he doesn't know what he wants?
He says he wants me then, and he wants to be able to stop leaving. He wants to wake up with me and know what my morning breath tastes like… just to know.
I can't help thinking about how hopeless all of this is, me loving him and him just trying and trying and trying. But I can't stop straddling him and I can't stop the silent sob that comes when he whispers he loves me and stops me from surrounding him and just cradles me to his chest.
If two wrongs make a right, I want to know where this gets me.
His fingers stroke the hollow of my back slowly, gently and he whispers it into my hair over and over. And then over and over again. He whispers that he's keeping me, that he loves me, loves me.
I want him inside me so that I don't have to listen to him tell me all of these truths. I can't say them back, can't, can't, cannot. Because I do love him, and I want him more than I want my next breath. I want him in my heart and in my head and in my body more than anything and if he doesn't stop talking I'm going to have to kiss him silent.
It's never been like this. Ever, never been this intensely, intense. The way his fingers dig into my back and squeeze me so close, can't help but ponder that there's something here that may be ever more than love.
Broken and breaking and I just… want to fall right into him. Forever.
And I'm almost gone, I really am.