I'm talking myself down off this ledge, calmly and levelheadedly telling me not to jump. But my body isn't listening. It too is winding tighter at every clock rotation. My breath has quickened and grown shallow, but my pulse has slowed down, leaving me disoriented and foggy. I can feel every single fine hair raise to attention on my arms, up the back of my neck, the goosebumps like Braille across my skin that only he can decipher.
I'm coaching myself, and I'm succeeding, but I'm weakening. Just breathe, I tell me. Keep talking. Keep your hands busy. Don't let go.
I'm not sure who touches who first, but at first contact I can hear the cord sizzle and snap, breaking under the weight of this astriction. I don't remember stepping closer or if I was pulled, but here I am pressed close and breathing the same staccato air as him. He takes his teeth to my neck roughly, his hands heavy and possesive on my ass and hips like they're his. My mouth hangs open but I, usually so loud, so vocal, can't manage to make a sound.
At some point I pull away from him, not because I want him to stop but because I need a minute. I can't breathe. I want him to devour me whole. But, Jesus, I need a fucking minute.
I don't even realize I've slipped my thin shirt over my head, slung it away from me like fire. I've reached behind me, unclasping my red bra and dropping it on top of my toes. I stand there before him, topless, panting, my breath so guttural I'm dizzy. He's on me before I can ask him to take me.
His mouth feels like fire and his hands feel like home. He's pinned me to the wall, his fingers slipping and probing, one elegant finger telling me to come here, his thumb making light, pressured circles. The room shrinks around us and my legs start to give out underneath me. I try to get away- I'm still fighting to regain some control- but he's not letting me go. He's watching me as I tremble and shiver beneath his touch, his eyes on mine as I slide down the wall and he comes down with me. I'm still trying to get away and he's chasing me every inch of the distance as I pull myself across the carpet, my back earning a carpet burn for my effort. He's on top of me, watching me, telling me to stop, to stop fighting, to let go without ever saying a word and his weight on me is so perfect, so fucking perfect, I can't believe I ever thought I could live my whole life without feeling this feeling. I feel myself come undone in his arms.
I'm getting loud, curses painting my lips like lipstick. I've gone blind, my body shuddering and jerking without my permission. I don't know that I've ever so intensely, so wholly surrendered to someone else. I've never been so exquisitely out of control in the entirety of my life.
He takes me like I'm his, like he's travelled my body a million times before. He's stroking, long and deep, his hands on my ass, his palms leaving stinging indentations on my skin. He's talking to me, telling me what to do, and I am completely relieved of the ability to form rational thought, my body slipping away from my control and the taste of prayers and curses in my mouth.
His name is a song he makes me sing more times than I can count, with him coaching me through every debilitating orgasm, watching me, reacting as my body responds, telling me to let go, to stop, to look at him, at turns commanding and tender. I am so completely overwhelmed I feel like I'm going to cry.
We fall away from each other at some point and I feel so dizzy, so drunk I don't even trust myself to stand. I am stumbling and disoriented as though we've spent the whole night drinking. The sun streaming through the windows is a surprise. I feel exposed in a way I am unfamiliar with, laid bare in a way I have steadfastly endeavored not to be.
How the fuck did this happen to me?
I feel like I've lost my mind. It's been slipping away slowly, unwinding itself from my ironclad grip and spiriting away by inches into the ether. But I was good. So good. And then he touched me. And I was gone.