Some part of me really thought I’d lost. That, for all of my suffering and plotting, I had lost him anyway. But then Ireceived that text last night, and I fled my house so fast I didn’t even bother responding to the message.
He looked so beautiful when I arrived.
Face flushed, joggers hung low on his hips as he stood in the doorway. Elijah seemed relieved, as if he thought I wouldn’t show. As if there was ever a reality where I am not at his beck and call.
And he heard me out. He stood quietly as I explained myself again—this time in greater detail. Of course, this time I also knew what he wanted to hear. It was all meticulously thought out to soothe and placate him without incriminating myself.
Yet I was still surprised at how easily he forgave me. At how easily he accepted my words and moved past his fear and anger.
I wonder what happened to him in California. Elijah came back with his walls lowered, more willing to make himself vulnerable to me. Maybe I have a family member to thank for that.
When I fell to my knees in front of him, everything around me clicked into place. Once again, I was reminded that my entire reason for breathing is to be in his space; I was made to worship at his feet.
And Elijah accepted my offering so gracefully. He took my body, took every thrust and every bruise with a relieved sigh and trembling hands.
As if he’s been waiting—as ifhisentire reason for breathing is simply to be touched byme.
“I belong to you, my flower. I belong to you.”
If only he knew the reality of that statement. If only he knew how true those words ring. That they caress a place so deep inside of me that holds the memories of us from so long ago.
Now more than ever, I want to tell him what he is to me. What I am meant to be to him.
As the rain continues to coat the windowpanes, I drag myself from the comfort of Elijah’s bed and find yesterday’s clothes in piles around the bedroom floor.
Even if I felt like snooping through his belongings, nothing Eli owns would fit me anyway.
My little angel is just that: little. Maybe not to others, but definitely to me, he is. Cute and small and docile when he needs to be; a moody, snapping chihuahua otherwise.
Before I dress, I take liberties in his shower. It’s a small space with a single sink and a small mirror, a toilet in the corner, and a shower just big enough that we could both squeeze in uncomfortably if we wanted to. The bathtub most definitely wasn’t made for leisurely soaking.
I turn the knobs until there is steam licking the tiles, and then I step under the falling water.
My mother used to tell me that showering in a thunderstorm is dangerous, as if the lightning can sneak inside and zap me without mercy.
I believe there is truth to her words, that the lightning could very well travel through the pipes, but there is no way I’ll be greeting Elijah smelling of sex.
Though some part of me wonders if he’ll find it hot if I were to enter his workspace smelling of debauchery and sin. Of him.
Would he remember last night in great detail? The smell of our sweat and his blood—the combination of lust and longing that suffocated both of us until we were delirious with need and affection?
Just the thought of him in general reminds me, so I imagine the smell of our actions would do it for him, at the very least.
As I squirt some of his shampoo that smells of coconut and summertime onto my hand, I can feel myself stirring. It smells of his pillows, of how lucky I felt shoving my nose into his hair as I held him in his living room last night.
I’m hard again. As if I didn’t spend a ridiculous amount of time buried deep inside of him and then holding him tightly as we relished in the aftermath of our intimacy. It’s kind of ridiculous how easily he controls me—a true puppet master even as he’s miles away.
Will he find himself disappointed when I appear smelling of coconut? When he leans in, and that flowery scent he loves to find on my skin is gone and replaced by himself? Or will he grow hard in his slacks and want me even more?
The potential fallout does not outweigh my own desire, and I wrap my fingers around my aching length. Heat that has nothing to do with the steam coils through me, and visions of Elijah laid beneath me crowd my brain.
In my mind’s eye, I watch him sob around my fingers as he tells me he’s about to come; I taste the musky citrus of his inevitable release on my tongue. He’s towering over me as his thighs tremble and his voice shakes, my finger buried in his ass.
That expression of shock and pure ecstasy that overcomes him whenever he feels my touch is so fucking intoxicating that my own arousal beads generously along my slit in seconds.
I want to see it again. I want to taste it and mold his pleasure with my own hands.
I crave his commanding voice and my own devotion. I am always so desperate for Elijah in whatever way I can have him that it’s starting to become a problem.
