My head on your knee, I can feel rough denim on the corner of my ear. Your breath has hitched.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?” Your voice scratches through the air.
“Are you okay?”
Your thigh is frozen, little twitches shimmering through it.
“Yeah.”
I turn my head in towards your stomach, meaning to catch your eyes—but they’re closed. As my chin scrapes onto your thigh, you shudder. “Shit.”
My face is cradled on your legs. Your arms are charged and sealed, rock-solid, to the seat of the sofa.
Something’s pressing into my cheek.
Your eyes flash open, already apologetic, but I speak before you can. “Sweet, darling boy.” The sight of your blush-ridden face makes my heart swell. I decide to take a chance.
Turning my cheek, I drag my chin back across the lump on your thigh. You tense up, until I lean down and kiss the denim where you’ve swelled. I feel your warmth, and setting my cheek against you, I can hear your heartbeat.
If it hammered from your chest, you would wrap your arms around me, pulling me into you, ’til the blood-fueled metronome was all I could hear. But this is unexplored territory, and you make no move at all. “Is this okay?” you ask, pulse spiking.
“This is okay,” I answer, snuggling my cheek in deeper. I know those eyes—you’re deciding whether to hold your ground or go all in.
“I love you,” you profess, the words passing through your lips earnest as a prayer. There isn’t a doubt in my mind. The days, weeks, months we’ve spent intertwined, joined at the hip; the way you can crawl inside my skull and see the world through my eyes; the voracity with which you listen, silencing the world save for me. The way you’re fighting, even now, to lay the cards in my hands.
I lift my face to yours, palms pressed into your thighs, dismantling all my defenses.
“I want you,” I whisper.
It’s barely a breeze, but my breath’s long gone. All my fear, resistance, self-loathing, pain, and doubt passes from my lips to yours in the briefest of moments. They are my offerings, brought to burn at the pyre.
Your lips are attentive, but cool. When there is once again air between us, you square your gaze with mine. “I want you,” you say. It’s so calm, anyone else wouldn’t have heard the question.
But I do. Knowing that makes the static fade out.
“Have me.”
Half a heartbeat and I’m in your arms, in your chest, in your hands. My feet lose contact with the ground as I float up, up, up. You haven’t kissed me yet—you’re peering into my soul as my legs wrap around your waist, tightening like I’ve watched a million bombshells do, here in your living room, on your couch, watching films in your lap.
But I’m on your chest now. And the living room is behind us.
I can tell the stairs rise up just behind me, and the thought of you bounding up them like a fireman with a kitty in arm makes me laugh. The image floats in front of you too, but through your chuckle, you challenge: “Hold on tight.”
And suddenly, we’re taking the stairs. I’m flying, absolutely above it all. When you hit the landing, your cheeks have gone ruddy, and seeing you aren’t superhuman after all makes my heart melt that much more. “Like a feather,” you say, reveling in your triumph even as your legs stretch at lion’s pace across the hall.
When you want something, nothing stands in your way.
Your bedroom door is just cracked, and I feel my back press gently against the wood as it gives way to your shadowy room. Suddenly, you stand still. “I wish there were candles.”
“We don’t need candles,” I smile at your sentimentalism. But you’re looking over my shoulder, surveying the room. I free a hand to gently pull your face back towards mine.
“I wanted it to be perfect.” Your eyes glimmer, giving away the care that seeps into every little thing you do. In an imperfect world, you have always striven to give me the impossible.
“It is,” I promise. “You are.”
The smile that puts the sun to shame. You kneel over, setting me sloppily but softly on top of the bed. “I’m not very graceful with this part,” you grin, crawling over me as I pull myself closer to the pillows. “And the rest?” I press, smirking as the biceps you’ve nurtured like the ferns on your windowsill creep closer to me.
“Considerably better.” And then you’re kissing me. Finally.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/glr58a/have_me_mf_getting_together_just_a_smidge_of