Women Seeking Women #134 - Scene 2

The guy’s hands pin my wrists to the mattress while his mouth finds that sweet spot behind my ear. I hate how quick my body answers. Six years later. October fourteenth. He still tastes the same. Salt. Smoke. The whole fight ripped loose just ten minutes before midnight, phones flying and doors slamming, and it should have stayed that way. Instead we’re here breathing each other’s names into a different bed, lights off, rain hitting the window hard like the room needs percussion. My knee hooks over his hip and we lock into place. He moves deep, pushes me open without asking, a warning and an apology in one long shove. I bite his shoulder so I won’t moan too loud; he shoves my legs higher and fucks that sound right out of me anyway. Sweat slides down my spine. Fabric stings my wrist where rope used to sit. Same dark game, different zip code. He gets faster. I get tighter. Somewhere between swear words and skin-slap rhythm our fingers catch, not like last time, hard and ugly, but like we can still call a truce without anyone admitting who won. Rain gets louder. The clock keeps blinking past midnight. We push toward whatever comes after pleasure, which always turns out to be the same simple mess: one of us saying stay, the other pretending to think it over. Maybe tomorrow we’ll argue again. Maybe we won’t last the night. Whatever the hell we call it, this is how it feels when forbidden still tastes good and old fire just finds another damn way to burn.