Tangled.Mature

It was something I'd felt before.

My whole body tingling.

My breaths getting hotter as they came out of me.

And the urge. The burning urge, like bites out of my thoughts, like a greedy thing consuming, and I only wanted to let it. With each bite, I slipped into a trance where I just wanted him to touch me.

I didn't care how.

Only when.

It felt like we were tangled.

Like we were a mess of something, totally not right for each other, with pieces that would never fit. Were just being mashed together because we wanted it to...

And it wasn’t new to me. That’s the thing.

It was something I’d felt before.

My whole body tingling.

My breaths getting hotter as they came out of me.

And the urge. The burning urge, like bites out of my thoughts, like a greedy thing consuming, and I only wanted to let it. With each bite, I slipped into a trance where I just wanted him to touch me.

I didn’t care how.

Only when.

Each finger on me seemed burned into my skin and I never wanted to wash it away.

I needed us to fit.

I sank against the blankets and he looked down at me. Our eyes met, locking us together for just a second before he disconnected, eyebrows twitching downward. At first I thought he was hesitant. But then I realized he was hesitant because he was attentive. I wasn’t used to that.

Every time he looked at me, his gaze scattered away and found my body. Lingered there for a second until he looked away and brought it right back. I wasn’t used to that, either.

The way he touched was slow, searching, careful, like I was something that shouldn’t be broken. When I really didn’t mind breaking, as long as it felt good while he did it. As long as I could remember feeling whole.

His rough fingertips slid against my skin and I could feel the calluses and the friction of sweat. He traced my collarbone. I squirmed, tingled with the sort of energy that swells inside and salivates for one touch and then another.

He looked at me with his hazel eyes. I took a deep, cold breath as he disconnected the touch, bringing his hands closer to my waist. His face, closer to mine. Sweat lined his forehead.

I reached for him desperately, my fingers stretching as far as they could before lining up with his skin. I pulled myself over, moving slow, paying attention to his reactions when I moved or swayed my hips or teased him. Slowed things down.

He gulped down a huge breath. In the gap between us, I felt the heat of his body. His smell was musty and salty with sweat. When my lips found his, I tasted stew. Beef stew. And coffee. My hands clasped to his shoulders possessively. His fingers traced me on all sides, like he was painting me all across, marking me, until he found the braid that displeased him. It unwound and hair fell to my shoulders. And for a moment, I was suspended. Suspended in time as he pulled it away from my neck.

His rough, chapped lips found it. Rubbed it gently as he pressed against me. I tried to breathe, but something cut it off, drowned it out. The stubble on his chin pricked me and tickled me and my whole body reacted.

Until I was lost in my need for him.

I overpowered him. Pushed him over. The tip of his tongue touched my chest and it was hot like fire, like an imprint, and I didn’t want it to dry. He pulled away for a moment.

Tearing, painful desperation. Hatred for the cold air flowing between our bodies. A need to feel more of him. All of him. Because in that moment, he was mine.

I looked into his eyes and grabbed his hands and put them on me, pushing him and pulling him and directing him in what he didn’t know. Hungering another taste of him, tasting his mouth until I had to breathe but wished I didn’t, only looking at his face because his pleasure was all that mattered.

His eyes closed. He bit his lips and his hands shook against my body until I trembled with him. I took a second to swallow and remember myself. He was breathing hard and it was making his nostrils flare.

His hands slid to my chest.

My heart beat into him. I sucked in his breath and trembled as I tried to hold back from his kiss. Because my moan turned into words all of a sudden, these breathless words that kept cutting off. “Don’t ever stop touching me.” It was a demand. Because want is rough. Tough. It needs, and it doesn’t know why.

He tangled himself up in me again, overpowering me. His hands wound through my hair. His kiss slammed me down, took everything out of me until I was in his control. My legs twitched. My thighs braced. Toes curled. His fingers played around, just slow enough for me to feel, fast enough that I almost couldn’t take it.

His tongue warmed my body. The contrast of his clamminess and his intensity was almost enough to bring me over the edge. I tore myself away from him. He pulled me closer, close as possible, closer than possible, and he flooded me with kisses. Down to my legs and up again and then further, until he tasted every part of me.

In his tireless touch, his sweaty hair, his fluttering heart, his shaking body, his ever-watching eyes… I could hear, feel, breathe, and be the answer to my demand.

For tonight, maybe just tonight, he wouldn’t let us disconnect.

The End

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