He cuts off my smile with another kiss.
And I thought I was ready for him,
but I wasn’t.
Thought I’d change my mind,
but I haven’t.
Thought I’d tense up,
panic,
bolt,
disappear.
But I don’t.I’m not.
Thought his hands would be selfish,
wild,
reckless.
But they’re not.
He’s a slow, exquisite ache,
desperate to feel every second.
He’s drowning in me,
and I’m drowning in him.
We’re dragging each other under,
and neither of us is fighting it.
I feel every lazy stroke of his tongue.
Not only in my mouth.
I feel every stroke everywhere,
curling inside my ribcage,
winding in the pit of my stomach,
shaking my bones apart—it’s jarring.
His knuckles skim my arms.
His hips lean into my hips.
His palms slide up the curve of my neck.
He cradles my face, pulling me into him?—
