His breath is hot on my neck.
I’m throbbing between my thighs.
But before I can stop myself,
I’m shaking my head.
No.
And I swear to God, my heart takes a knife to its throat to kill me.
My body wants this.
My brain doesn’t trust it.
My heart is scared to feel anything.
I lay my hand over his, on my thigh.
Touch doesn’t scare me.
It’s what happens after I give permission.
Because, then what?
Then it’s their hands,
creeping and crawling from place to place.
It’s their choices. Not mine.
I don’t know where they’ll go or what they’ll take. Or how fast they’ll move before it’s too late. And if I miscalculate, misjudge, and they go too far? I don’t trust myself to stop it fast enough, in time before my body locks up, when my voice gets stuck somewhere between fear and silence.
So we stand there, suspended in time,
his hand on my thigh, my hand on his,
waiting in the silence, stillness, the seconds.
His breath skips,
his jaw flexing against my temple.
But he doesn’t push.
As if he’d rather wait than risk losing me,
all night if he has to.
We hold both our words and breath,
hovering inside the same pause.
Until fear blinks first.
And then I move.
Breathing out slow, I guide him,
