JUST SO Y'ALL KNOW:
The MC has church hurt and church trauma; both characters acknowledge it, and I am not encouraging forcing yourself to abide by religious actions you don't believe in. That said, this story starts in the middle of wherever because that's how my mind works. Let me know what you think, it's my first piece <3
"You okay?"
"I'm good, yeah. I'm okay." A cold, trembling fist blooms behind your rib cage, and you shift precariously, trying to dislodge it.
Anxiety? Why do you feel anxious? You ball your fists and feel your cold fingers warm against your palms.
"Just shaky... can you stop rubbing my arms?"
"I've kind of got an agenda here, just sit still." Their voice had deepened, sending warm, soothing vibrations to clash against the discomfort in your chest.
Their hands slide to the tops of your shoulders and you feel them brush your collarbone on each side. They might be able to feel you shaking now, you don't know. You decide to sit still while they cup the side of your head with one hand and slide the other to the center of your back. You think about the love handles they're probably counting with their fingers while you lean your cheek into their touch, and indeed a moment later you feel them grasping one of the biggest ones that sits right below your bra strap. They use it to pull you in closer.
"You have handles," they say, their warm breath now fanning across your lips. "They're useful."
They place their tinted lips on your brow bone and you hear the sticky gloss smack as they move down slightly to kiss both your cheeks. You are trying to hide your heavier breathing, but it sounds stuttered to your ears. What the hell do you do with your hands? They are kneading your back with both hands now, pressing you closer to their chest. You smell the heady sweat there, and a bit of the cologne you bought them at the shop. They're actually wearing it? It calms you, somewhat, and for the first time you take a deep breath. Your breasts rise and touch against their chest as you breathe in, and they bring one of their hands around to cup one under your shirt.
"Why are you wearing this armor?" they chuckle, trying - you assume - to pinch the tip of your breast through the thick pad of your stiff bra. They shove the cup down and your heavy breast spills out; they groan, deep, but the air across the exposed flesh outright punches you out of your trance. The cold in your gut returns. This is all new, and you don't think they would want you if they knew your... terms and conditions.
You pull back from their latest endeavour: a light, wet tongue tip teasing the hollow of your throat, and pour yourself back into your bra, glancing up to see their eyes even more hooded than usual. You had felt your stomach beginning to flutter with each pull, and it pulses once more to see their response to your body.
"Did I do something wrong?" they ask, hands drifting down to lightly encircle your wrists. You think now it's because they like to feel your pulse throb. It probably feels like a hummingbird's heartbeat right now, and you feel blood race to your face. Undetectable because of your brown skin, but you're in a little too deep to be hiding your attraction anyway.
"I'm not interested in any type of relationship, not even physical," you say with practiced assertiveness, meeting their curious eyes and drawing your hands away from theirs. Your fingers are cold again.
"I see," they intone, returning to running their hands from your wrists to your shoulders. "I can't say I won't try to convince you otherwise. Can I have a hug, then?"
You try not to grin so wide, but your lips stretch all the way to your eyeteeth. They know how to put you at ease, even after the slow exploration they just did of your body. "Sure."
But you didn't expect them to pull you to your feet and press themselves against you. The first thing you notice is the alluring musk swirling around you, sanding down your nerves. Your body relaxes into theirs, and they slide their arms around you, folding your soft parts into their hard ones. Their firm thigh slides between the both of yours, and your breath stutters significantly this time. You lay your cheek against their shoulder, and feel them grind their leg against you while the warmth of their breath sweeps across your neck. You might've felt their tongue run across your neck once more, but then the hug is over and they briskly set you back from them before strolling out of the room, cheerily waving goodbye.
You feel breathless and a little lost, and you wish you had rubbed yourself back against them when you had the chance.
Next week when you see them in their usual spot in the library, a filmy thread of desire laces itself into your veins. Still, you walk over, and now the present conversation floats lazily around in your head while the brief dark moment you shared swims furious laps behind your eyes. You're terrified they'll notice the electricity sparking up and down your nervous system, but it must be your sheer determination to hold a light conversation that tips them off instead.
"You thinking about my tongue?"
Shit. "Wow, not exactly... but would you feel better if I lied to you?" Fuck. Shit, they know.
"I figured since I put the moves on you, you'd be feeling restless..." Their eyebrow creeps up as they rumble, purposely rumble, those words. Your heart thumps in response to the vibrations they send to your chest.
"I wish I could say I was head over heels, just to salvage some of that ego for you, but I don't wanna lead on the most eligible team member of the public library staff," you leer. This is your element, the shallow flirtation. This is safe.
Until they lean forward and growl, "How can I be eligible if I only want all of you?"
And it's like a light flickers on behind their eyes, and all you can see is the stark silhouette of not just lust, but a whole encyclopedia collection of emotions. Your first thought is to recoil from them, but you grab your prey instinct by the throat and bitchslap it back down. You're maintaining eye contact, even if you think you feel yourself beginning to fall into their gaze.
You smile, hopefully not shakily, and brush your twists back from your forehead while their eyes throw little, piercing daggers into yours.
"Shoot, I guess I should let Tifah and Queenie know you're off the market, then."
There. The shine in their eyes dulls a tad, and you regain the ability to take a full breath. Even though for some, probably irrelevant reason, you regret it.
You finish talking, and have made plans to go grocery shopping with them this weekend. Thinking of the lack of privacy at Wegmans, for some miniscule reason, dampens your mood somewhat.
You know the irrelevant, miniscule reason. You started something together, and now there is the wide-open offer of intimacy waiting for you in their eyes. But you're a gatekeeper against that sort of thing, so you shouldn't be worried, probably. It's not like you'd ever lose control. You're a G.
. . .
"I've been challenging myself to meet people's eyes," you explain, slapping a yellow-bellied watermelon to ensure the flesh inside is just ripe enough before you place it eagerly in your cart. You're sharing a basket, and their meat items take up half of the space. You eye the frozen turkey legs, thinking of good times past before your eczema started ruling out multiple food groups.
"I don't understand why you would need to?"
And you don't understand how they could devote this much attention to you in such a packed space. You're pushing the cart, and they're walking sometimes beside you, sometimes behind you, ducking through the weekend crowd. And yet they haven't missed a beat in the conversation. This is why you and Tifah shop during the week.
"You didn't know me before this year," you giggle. "Talking to people exhausts me sometimes, and I pretty much found that keeping my gaze down didn't hold any consequences, socially. I don't know if people eventually thought I just had a communicative disorder... it was messed up to just let them think that, the more that I thought about it, so I wanted to change how I behave around people. Take up more space, I guess."
You are at the dairy section now and watch them load what would be a month's worth of cheese to anyone else into the cart. You try not to stare too long.
"I like that reason," they muse, "although I couldn't imagine not looking into your eyes."
You ignore the warm words, and quip, "'Eyes are the window to the soul,' is that how you keep getting me to tell you all my secrets?"
They stop trying to balance a few more wedges of brie into the cart, unsuccessfully so, considering how their items are spilling over into your half. They look up at you, raking their gaze across your, your... existence, it feels like. Geez.
"Not all your secrets," they smile.
They take hold of the side of the cart, like a kid in trouble at Wal-mart, and saunter with you towards the register, possibly wanting you to mull over what they meant. You steal glances at their narrow hips and mull.
. . .
You don't visit the library for a few weeks, because you can't handle how they hijack your emotions so easily. But being home is wearing you out. Queenie took up learning how to cook at the beginning of February and has had to come to you half the time with a spoon or pan in hand, not knowing what went wrong in some loaf, or casserole, or scone she decided to scribble down the recipe for. A good amount of the time, she's accidentally used baking powder instead of baking soda. You're happy she's learning, but between her, the upstairs neighbors' kids thundering across the room half the day, and the deadlines you have to meet, you're starting to have trouble sleeping at night.
So you eventually find yourself walking up that uneven brick path and shuffling through those heavy double doors to breathe that stale, cold air again. You hole yourself up in a corner, in a deep armchair by the wide, wall-length window in the back of the library, earphones blasting Lofi hip-hop and back turned to the world, to get some work done.
You finish up with four clients before you come up for air, and see them casually sketching on a notepad not ten feet from you on the hard oak bench below the window. They're wearing column legged slacks today, and a baggy turtleneck that almost washes out their skin.
