Fit

She chalked the first one up to it being their first time. Memories of the kissing and the touching, echoes of the words “I love you” still fresh in her ears, the anticipation of knowing they would explore more that night - she was sure this was the cause for that instantaneous rush when he first slid inside of her. She felt his body against her, let her hands roam freely, and came again and again before he convulsed above her, crying out, muttering “Jesus Christ” as his body arched and twisted, trying to bury himself as deep inside of her as he could go. He lay there exhausted and in a daze, and she still shook as she stood, noticing the flush on her face in the mirror.


When it happened the next time, and the time after that, that slow build followed by the involuntary clenching of her muscles as he slowly entered her, his eyes locked on her face, smiling with her as she went over that edge, she knew it was more than a first time thing. He fit, as if his body was perfectly molded to hers on the inside, designed to touch every millimeter of nerve endings, and rest against her most sensitive spots. Again and again, she relished in that feeling each time they made love, and purposely took her time each time she sank down on him for the first time. The only thing better than savoring his body entering hers was watching his face as he reached his own climax, his cock buried inside of her, his hands on her hips as she slid against him, feeling him pulse as he cried out, abandoning herself to a final orgasm before she collapsed on top of him. Feeling him still inside of her, as the residual spasms subsided, she smiled into his shoulder. He fit.

* * * * *

In the dark before dawn, the images haunted her, and her hand moved feverishly to find that release. Craving that feel, that fit, that she could only get with him, her fingers worked through the wet folds and across her hardened clit, feeling it edge closer and closer, but not quite there. Frustrated, she sought more recent memories, ones she’d tried to fill that void with, and her orgasm inched closer, thinking of different hands and different mouths and different bodies. And then, at that critical moment, it was all him: his hardness buried inside of her, touching those nerve endings deep inside, fingertips digging into the soft skin of her hips, his eyes liquid blue, the curses falling in harsh whispers from his lips and filling the air between them, her release, timed with his, leaving her heart racing. Without realizing it, she cried out in the dark by herself as her fingers stroked and soothed her swollen lips, her other hand clutching the bed. Her ragged breathing turned into audible sobs, and tears wet the pillows.

* * * * *

The sun filtered in, rousing her from more images, and she could still feel the damp spots on her pillow. She lay in the silence listening and feeling. Her hand reached out into the empty spot, remembering how his warmth felt against the cool sheets. Her other hand rested against her chest, feeling the ache in her heart, as if missing a piece. She pressed her fingers into the soft flesh, until she met the resistance of her ribs, feeling her heart beat under them. She could almost feel the empty spot, a vacuum of emotion. Knowing that the only thing that would fill it – that would fit – was him.

Scared

Words, full of hints and promises and innuendo. She liked the words as much as anything; the mental energy they expended over drinks and shared glances while they discussed everything under the sun. The words had depth and fire and life and she felt her pulse race beneath her skin, regardless of the topic.


Then one night, after dinner and drinks and countless words, he kissed her. Turned her around, his arm around her waist, and kissed her, his facial hair tickling her lip. She kept her eyes lowered, catching her breath, but her mouth instinctively sucked his lower lip into hers, her tongue playing carefully with his. She almost forgot to exhale.

*****

The words still captivate her, but there is a point where the words taper off, and a glance and a smile tell her he wants more, and she finishes the drink and follows, his arm wrapped around her waist. This night, especially, she needed him, and he sensed it. His kisses were insistent, but his words gentle, murmuring against her neck, the vibrations giving her goosebumps and making her groin ache in that familiar way. He whispers “baby,” says her name over and over, tells her how beautiful she is and how good she feels. And when he pulls her on top of him, and slides inside of her, she stares down at his eyes, the gold flecks illuminated by the bedside lamp, watching him smile when her orgasm overtakes her. Again, and again, until spent, she collapses beside him, warm and covered in one fluid or another, and he whispers to her more while he strokes her hip.

*****

She’s not sure how many times they repeat the routine. She lays beside him again, the air cool against her damp thighs, but this time the words are serious. Knowing her heart is lighter, he opens up, whispering against her neck again. The bravado of a man whose days are measured dissolves, and he murmurs into her shoulder “I’m scared.” He feels warm and alive, but in the silence, she can hear the clock ticking, and she wraps her naked body around him tighter, her cheek against his face, her hand stroking his head. He holds her tight, hands skimming over her sides, and she can feel the moisture at the corner of his eye. Her heart breaks, for an instant, then heals over quickly before he sees. “Stay here with me tonight,” he whispers, which breaks her heart all over again.  Makes her want to say "I love you," even if the words might break her heart more than it already is.

She kisses him, smiles at him, but catches the clock out of the corner of her eye. Her time is measured too, though not in the same way, and she steels herself for the hard part of leaving, even if it is only temporarily. The goodbyes are long, and the words sweet, though it still hurts a little when the door closes behind her.

*****

She holds the tears back until she’s alone in the car. Not sure whether driven by her own fears, or his, she leans her head against the steering wheel, as a sob racks her body, and pleads to whoever might be listening in the dark before dawn, “Please.”