The second my hands moved to her neck, I could tell she grew nervous. We were naked, physically and emotionally, we had confessed things that neither of us could take back–we were lost lovers.
So it was that we fell to enjoying ourselves, to filling ourselves of each other, to laying ourselves bare. She opened to me and I was enveloped in her warmth. To her, this was business as usual, this was typical, desirable, expected. For me, I felt privileged; of course, I'd never tell her that. Whatever the case, the both of us couldn't think of anything other than the reaching, the straining, the pulling and twisting of desire and need. We were each other and felt it.
Then I reached for her throat.
Her eyes widened.
Was she in danger? Did she misread my character, my personality? Did she happen to run into a maniac, a freak, a killer? I could feel these thoughts race through her head as I tightened my grip, as I moved in her repeatedly, as she felt the joy of myself inside of her as she began to fear for her life.