He does the same thing when we get to my apartment. He lets us in and tosses his wallet and keys down on the table at the entrance. He turns to face me. We’re squared off. His demeanor is calm. His shoulders are relaxed. His stance is self-assured and open. The slight tension around his jaw is still there though and his eyes are dark and intense. There’s a flicker of wildness about them that would scare the shit out of anyone who came upon him in a dark alleyway, but it doesn’t scare me. Not in the slightest.
To me he's perfect.
The surprise and excitement and romance of the day suddenly gives way, and in its wake I’m left with nothing but pure hunger. Pure want. It pools in my body, making me feel heavy and hot.
“Take your clothes off,” I say.
His lips flick up into a smile. His eyes don’t smile at all. He shrugs off his jacket and drops it on the table next to his phone. He unbuttons the first couple of buttons of his shirt. Big, thick fingers. Small buttons. It’s hard to watch without starting to help. And by help, I mean rip.
“Go to my room.”
His eyes track down my body, lingering below my belt. He turns and starts walking up the stairs. As he walks, he pulls the shirt off over his head and drops it onto the landing. I follow him up, my eyes trained on his body. For once, he’s the prey and I’m the one giving chase.
The ink on his back flutters as he moves. The wings of the raven ripple when he tenses his arms and quiver when he relaxes. The image comes alive more and more with each piece of clothing that drops to the floor. By the time he gets to my bedroom, he’s buck naked. And so am I.
“Don’t move,” I say.
He drops his arms down to his sides and watches passively as I approach. I take my time. I look at him before I touch him. Really look at him. I can’t believe he’s here. Naked. In my house – not breaking and entering, here on the back of a formal invitation. God, he looks good. His olive skin is stretched tautly over solid muscle. He’s erect and totally unapologetic about it. He’s standing with a hip jutting out slightly and one leg bent at the knee. Calm, cool and fucking collected.
I can’t let that stand, can I?
I lean in close and whisper into his ear, “First one to lose control, tops.”
He smiles a slow smile that goes all the way to his eyes.
“Guess you’re topping then.” He’s completely convinced I’ll lose control long before he does.
In fairness, our previous encounters do make it seem likely.
“Not today, Satan,” I smile. “Not today.”
I catch his face in both hands. Solid bone and warm skin. Rough stubble scuffs my palms. I push myself up on my toes and brush my lips against his. I do it softly, hardly touching him at all. His jaw drops and he leans in. I take a little step back until he corrects his posture. Then I kiss him again. This time, I run my tongue along the seam of his lips. He parts them immediately but holds his position.
Clever.
He understands the game.
I take his bottom lip between my teeth and tug it gently. He expels a quick rush of warm breath. I graze my teeth over plump flesh, squeezing enough to get his attention, but not enough to hurt. He leans down again, dipping his tongue into my mouth. I step back again.
He sighs in frustration and straightens his posture again.
I trace the lines of him. I start at his neck, running a finger along his jugular, left side then right. I stroke his Adam’s apple and follow the line down the middle of him to his sternum. I do it lightly. I fan both hands out and let the tips of my fingers travel over the flat bulk of his pecs. It makes him shiver. Not a lot. Just a little. I use my nails to draw small circles around his nipples. His skin tightens. Dusty pink buds peak. I ignore them. I move back to his neck. I move my hands along his shoulders and down his arms. This time, my touch is firm. I knead the hard muscle knotted beneath his skin and when I feel him relax, I visit his nipples again. This time I do it with my mouth. I flick my tongue across each one, pressing them down, breathing warm breath onto wet skin. He shivers again. Harder now. I rake my nails down his torso, softly then hard enough to make him draw a quick, ragged breath.
His pupils are dilated. His eyes look almost black and are dull with desire. It’s a look he wears well. I gaze into his eyes and slide the palm of my hand down his belly. He doesn’t breathe until I curl my fingers into the dark hair between his legs and give a gentle tug. His hips roll forward involuntarily, but he quickly corrects himself. He tries to steady his breathing as I touch him everywhere except for his dick and his balls. His dick is leaking, glossy at the tip, and it twitches hard every time I move my hand anywhere near it.
I move behind him and kiss the side of his neck. His head lolls back so I run my fingers through the hair on his crown, closing my fingers so I can keep him right where I want him. I kiss his neck again. And again. I suck delicate skin into my mouth and as I do it, I taste him and smell him.
Man.
Mine.
My taste buds ignite. So does my olfactory system. It makes a harsh sound rush through my teeth. I feel the leaden, lusty pull I always feel when I’m near him. In the past, the second I’ve felt it, I’ve lost, I’ve given into it, and I’ve let it consume me.
My body is reacting the same way now. I open my eyes and look around the room. I give my head a quick shake. I focus my mind. I remind myself that when we were apart, aside from humiliation and crushing pain, the only thing I felt was regret. Terrible, true regret that every time I topped him, I lost it. I didn’t take my time. I gave in to my base nature and I missed the opportunity to take him apart one piece at a time. The thought of living the rest of my life without having made him shatter into tiny pieces kept me awake in the night. When I wasn’t furious, or humiliated, or fucking sad, I was sorry.
When I’ve composed myself, I dig my thumbs into his trapezius muscles, and plant soft kisses down his spine. His hands are still at his sides, but his legs are straight, stiff, and his ass muscles clench and release involuntarily.
I rub my face against his back and sniff at him like an animal. I study the ink on his back. It’s magnificent and it seems to grow more beautiful the longer I look at it. Intricate lines etched into his skin come together to tell a story. I don’t know the whole story. Parts of it scare me, and I don’t know how it ends. I only know it’s a story I want to know. I want to take as long as it takes, the rest of my life if need be, and I want to learn it and learn it. I want to learn it until his story and my story are the same story.
