Like being back at the bookstore,
pinned by navy eyes.
Like standing on top of the Astor Clockhouse,
the whole world at my feet.
Like nothing else matters.
He’s kissing me like he’s afraid I’ll leave,
so he’s leaving pieces of himself behind inside me.
Like he’s pouring himself into me fast
before I change my mind,
before the door shuts,
spilling his name into my blood,
wants me filled to the edges with him,
wants to make sure I’m still tasting him tomorrow.
And the day after.
And the day after that.
He groans again, propping up on an elbow,
nailing me down on him,
like he’ll fall apart if I stop.
His hands bite into my hips as I grind down,
his teeth scraping my shoulder.
Then his mouth—hot and open—finds mine again.
I’m in his lungs.
He’s in my spine.
And fuck, this is us.
I’ve got him wrecked.
He’s got me worse.
And there’s no out now. Not for either of us.
I’m fisting his hair, white-knuckled?—
When the orgasm hits me
with a force that’s like standing without flesh,
