Comfort

She had a sneaking suspicion that the reason it was so good was because it couldn't last. There was absolutely no future for them, no matter what choices they made- and maybe, somehow, God recognized how bitterly unfair that was, and managed to squeeze all the intensity and passion and wonderfulness of the months and years most couples had together into each one of their rushed and frantic trysts.

She wouldn't have actually called what they did together lovemaking- that was a word associated with tenderness, a word for people who were free to meet in their own bedrooms and spend luxurious hours with their lovers, whispering secret things and dreaming of beautiful futures.

But it wasn't just fucking, either- they cared about each other as individuals far too much for that. Fucking was something animals did, rutting in the dirt just to get laid and fulfill a basic biological impetus.

She didn't know what to call it. She suspected that he didn't, either, although they never talked about it during the day. Somehow it was easier to push back the desperation that drove them together during the daylight. Probably it had to do with the other people around them, joking, laughing, and making it easier to forget how painfully alone they really were.

She remembers the first time they were together with painful clarity. It hadn't been something she had expected, that first night when she went to him with a question about some mundane matter long forgotten. He had kissed her first, and she'd been far too startled to react in the beginning.

It was a short kiss, that first one, and unlike all the movies she'd seen would suggest, time did not slow down. Seconds didn't pass by like centuries, and he had started to pull back after only a moment or two. And that, more than anything, was why she had risen on her knees off the couch to follow him as he retreated- she simply needed more time.

That part never went away- they are always fighting for time. She's learned so much about him since that night, and so much about them. She knows now that his kisses aren't determined by the way he moves his tongue, but by the way he holds his mouth- and each way has a thousand different subtle little meanings.

Tonight his mouth is overpowering. She likes his jaw- it's one of those rugged, delightfully masculine things about him that really strikes her. She loves to follow his jaw to the strong column of his neck, tasting his skin with her tongue, occasionally using her teeth to inspire that hiss of breath she loves so much.

But tonight he's not so patient. Tonight he's not going to let her explore him; he's not going to be able to go slowly or gently. His hands are everywhere, pulling her to him, then over her shoulders and down her back to tug her shirt up just enough to allow access to her sides. The feel of her skin seems to give him enough pause to draw back just a bit and give her a shaky smile. She smiles back encouragingly, and then reaches to try and pull off his shirt.

He has to let her go then, but it's a good compromise because once his shirt is off, she can lose hers too, and then they can move back together because he's finally got the trick of the bra clasp down. He's ordinarily a fairly smart boy, and she certainly finds his fingers to be clever enough in every other aspect of this, but it did take him a long time to master undoing the back without letting her go. That could have been because they were often so impatient that she would just let go for a moment and do it for him, but these days he's finally gotten the hang of it.

She slips out of the garment and he pauses for a moment. She loves this part, and she dreads it. He never fails to stop for just a moment and gape- the novelty still hasn't worn off in that respect, but even in the face of such clear appreciation, even with him, she feels exposed and vulnerable.

But it's not long before they're moving towards a flat surface- tonight it looks like it's his bed, and his thumb is rubbing circles around her breast- clockwise tonight, she notes. Then she buries her face in the crook of his shoulder as he very gently scrapes her nipple with the nail of his thumb, then moves to the other side and uses the flat side of the nail against the other nipple.

She allows this for a minute before she reaches to draw his face back to hers and kiss him rather wildly. Something in his eyes tonight makes her terribly impatient, so she whispers, "Your pants, take them off," and she's pushing off her own underthings as he complies.

Their legs tangle and he's pressing her back into the bed as he resumes kissing and touching her. She moves just a bit and then she can feel him pressed up against her. Her breath catches and she grips his shoulders a bit tighter as he shifts forward.

Then they're rocking together as he finds a rhythm that suits him, and it's not long before she feels his skin hotter to touch, and his back stiffening, as he collapses against her. She reaches up to push some of his sweaty hair back from his forehead as he rolls off to the side a bit.

The look he gives her tells her everything he can't properly say. Thank you for this. I don't want you to have to leave after we finish. I'm sorry. I need you. It tells her everything true, but it never tells her that he loves her. She doesn't know if that's because he can't love her, or he's scared, or he just doesn't. But he needs her, and that's good enough. Because she doesn't know what to call what they do together, but she knows that if it brings him even a little peace, it's worth everything.