Suddenly I’m begging him for another finger, then another because I want to feel the stretch again. I didn’t know… I mean,I had no ideait could feel like this.
“I want you to do it,” I say breathlessly. “Please?”
He looks down at me, three fingers working me into a frenzy. His head cocks. “You want me to fuck you?”
I nod, almost frantically. “Yes. Please.”
“So polite,” he teases. He pulls his fingers from me and crawls over my body until he’s looking down into my eyes, getting close. I’m assuming so he can see that I’m sure, then reaches down to caress me. “You want me to fuck this tight virgin hole?”
“Please…” I say, but it comes out as more of a whine than a word. He reaches over and grabs the condom he’d moved to the corner of the bed when he got his lube.
His eyes stay on mine while he rolls the condom on and spreads more lube over himself, pushing more inside me for good measure. I’m nervous, but I don’t want him to stop. He tries to say something, probably to reassure me that we don’t have to do this, or that he’ll stop if I tell him to, but I cut him off with a kiss that he falls into, blanketing his body over mine.
There’s pressure, enough to edge on pain, but he reminds me to breathe and tells me to bear down. He pushes inside me slowly, filling me in a way I never thought possible. It’s more than physical. I feel like I’m being stretched to the brink mentally andemotionally as well. It feels like more than I can handle, but my eyes find his again, and I get lost.
When he moves against me, when our bodies fit together, it doesn’t feel like a first time or a one-night mistake. It feels inevitable. Like this was always meant to happen. He takes it slow, not fucking me so much as making slow, careful love to me, the way I imagine someone would do with someone special to them.
He makes me feel like I’m the only person on earth.
The rhythm we find is unhurried but unstoppable. Every breath and every sound falling in sync until the room itself feels alive with us. The ocean crashes outside in steady time, the fan circles overhead, our hearts beat at the same rhythm.
Every kiss he presses against my mouth, my throat, my chest, feels like a vow I don’t have words for. Whenever he’s not kissing me, he’s looking deep into my eyes. The moonlight glints off the green of his eyes, a color I can still see when I close my eyes and throw my head back, crying out into the night.
I’m broken apart completely, and I know one thing with a certainty that terrifies me.
I’ll never be the same again.
Time bends around us. What begins as a kiss, a thankful prayer into his lips for giving me this gift, this night, this feeling, becomes something larger, a tide that carries us out and back in again, over and over, until I don’t know how many times we’ve touched, or where one moment ends and the next begins.
Sometimes I’m the one leading–pressing him down, tasting the lines of his throat, his ribs, his hip, until his body arches intomine, answering me without words. Other times I’m the one carried, yielding to the press of his hands, the coax of his mouth, the slow, deliberate way he takes me apart as if he’s teaching me how to let go of the control I’ve so desperately held onto my entire life.
Every way we fit together feels different, yet somehow the same. My body burns, but not with strain, with something deeper. A fullness that blooms and settles and blooms again. The rhythm between us shifts, soft and searching one moment, rough and desperate the next, and each time it builds into something that shatters me, I think that has to be the end–until he touches me again and it begins all over.
The hours blur. The fan stirs the humid air, the moonlight slides across the sheets, the ocean keeps its endless rhythm. All I feel, all I see, all I know is him. His mouth, his hands, his weight, his voice and moans rasping against my ear in a way that sets all my senses on high alert.
By the time the night gives way to pale dawn, my body is wrung out, every nerve alive. I’ve never been held like this, never been touched like this. Never beenknownlike this. And the strangest part is, I don’t even know his name.
I feel embarrassed about it, feeling too shy to ask despite everything we’ve done. I’m too exhausted to talk. I’ll ask in the morning.
We fall asleep tangled in bedding damp with sweat and cum, my face pressed to the hollow of his shoulder, our breaths slowing in sync.
Everything about this night has felt unreal, but what I’m feeling right now is… I don't know whatitis exactly, but it’s real. I feel it in my gut, as sure as the ache in places I’ve never ached before.
It’s something big. Maybe a little scary.
It feels like something I was never meant to have but somehow stumbled into anyway.
I wake up slowly, awareness seeping into me like tidewater. The room is hot, the air conditioning little more than a suggestion in this attic room. Sweat slicks my skin, cooled only by the slow, steady rotation of the ceiling fan above. The rhythmic push of the blades matches the steady crash of the ocean outside, almost enough to rock me back under again. Almost. Until the rhythm reminds me of everything that happened last night.
I blink my eyes open, wincing against the bright sun filtering through the cracked window. It takes a moment for my vision to sharpen, the whitewashed beams above me slowly coming into focus. Dust motes drift through the sunlight, suspended, almost shimmering. I smile without meaning to, a faint curve ghosting my lips as the soreness in my body makes itself known in every place he touched me.
The memory rolls in, warm and dizzying, but so does the realization–I still don’t even know his name. My first ever hookup, but it felt like so much more. How is it possible that I know every sound he makes and what each part of his body tastes like, what he feels like on the inside and how he feels inside me, yet I don’t know something as simple as his first name? How do I even ask without sounding like an idiot?
Not that he seemed inexperienced. He knew exactly what he was doing, every touch confident and sure. Which means this couldn’t have been his first time spending the night with a stranger. Unlike me. Hell, the only other time I’ve ever had sex was with my best friend on prom night, and even that was nothing more than curiosity. Platonic friends checking a box. It was awkward. Mechanical. Nothing like last night.
Last night was… something else. Transcendental.
My cheeks flush hot with embarrassment at my own corny thoughts.Transcendental?But honestly, is there even another word for it? What happened last night was more than sex–wasn't it? That couldn’t possibly be what it’s like all the time, or no one would ever leave the bed. Society would fall to ruin.
