[story] we shouldn’t

“You’re killing me,” he said in a strained whisper.

“You don’t seem to mind,” I whispered back.

We were pressed close enough for me to feel the full volume of his ragged breath. I reached up to caress his jaw, thumbed the clean-shaven smoothness of his cheek, and he melted into my palm. The air fled from his nostrils and I planted the softest kiss on his waiting lips.

He welcomed the warmth of my mouth, kissed me back, then said, “We can’t do this.” His words slipped into my mouth when he spoke without pulling away.

“Why not?” I want this.

“We shouldn’t.” We want this.

I leaned away, offering him the chance to walk away, but he clasped my wrist and he pulled me back in. Like his magnetic pole had flipped, our foreheads locked.

“We can’t… do this,” he repeated. “Not right now, I mean. Not here.”

I held us there for a moment. I knew that he got off on the impropriety of it all as much as I did. He needed a minute to stew in that.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s late. You should go home.”

He didn’t like being told what to do. He also couldn’t resist me when I dared try.

I leaned my full weight into the desk behind me. A stray stream of light lurking in through the side window a sudden flash of a memory lit up over his face and I stopped to really look at him. 

He laughed and ran a bashful hand through his hair. “What?”

“I just caught a glimpse of the face of this guy I used to know.”

“Oh yeah?” He pushed the stray hair back from my eyes. “Tell me about him.”

“I found him skulking around a wine bar in Paris. He came in looking for his friend and found me instead. He was awfully sure of himself…”

“Sounds a little pretentious,” he said. “Was he handsome at least?”

“He thought so.”

“And what did you think of him?”

I cocked my head, looked him in the eyes. We stared each other down until the last of the unbridled feelings we’d dammed up for too long gave way.

“Why don’t I just show you.” 

I leaned in, inviting him to kiss me again. He accepted – still cautious, but much harder than before. And with that kiss, the match was finally lit and it ignited the pilot light between us. Months could pass without so much as a word exchanged, but when the guards came down, our gas fire was as good as sparked.

We drank each other in through respective mouths, tongues down opposite throats, parched after an exceptionally long time apart. And then, without warning, the raging source subsided, freezing to a halt all over again, perhaps as a result of how the heat was escalating. We pulled away from each other, as if suddenly fearing the burn.

“We can’t do this.” His hot, teasing whispers seared my ear, my neck. “I… should go.”

“You should.” Every time I said it, we fell a little deeper into the well of our illicit affair. Closer and closer to drowning, and still we had hardly touched.

“Not here,” he added again, more to himself.

Again, I gave him the chance to walk away, but he licked his lips and stayed put.

“What’s wrong with here?” I rolled my hips, grinding lightly over the bulge pressing into me. I was beginning to get the impression that he was avoiding a key point to his narrative but I obviously wasn’t working that hard to get an answer. He didn’t humour me with one either so, enveloped by the warm glow fanning out from the lamps over the fireplace, I dove back in.

I clutched him by the collar and pulled him closer, wrapping my arms around his neck like I was climbing a tree. In the woody warmth of his den, I chopped that tree down, inviting him to fall back on to the desk so I could climb up on top of him, devour his mouth, grind into his wishful cock.

No hesitation now, he tore my shirt off overhead and pushed the paraphernalia on the desk aside with his forearm.

“You want to fuck me right here?” he asked, feigning incredulity. “On my desk?” He unclasped my bra. I tossed it aside and bent back over him, grazing my bare nipples against the fabric of his shirt. “Is that what you want?”

“Mm…” I murmured, not giving him an answer right away. When I sat up in his lap, a beam of light from the streetlamp slipping through the window wove glowing silk strands across my chest. I took both his hands and put them over my breasts, catching them in the web of light threads.

“That’s not all that I want,” I squeezed along with him, “but I think it’s a good place to start.”

“Fuck,” he sighed again. The statement was punctuated by the knock of his head falling back into his desk.

“Maybe,” I teased. “I’m not sure you deserve it anymore.”

Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash

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