"So that's it then?"
She just lay there and didn't respond. He didn't expect her to; she had said enough. He lay there quietly too, not wanting her to know he was crying. He hadn't expected this. Well he had, actually. Fuck, he didn't know what he expected. She was never an open book.
He reached down to the side of the bed and fished his cigarettes from his jeans, knocked one out and lit it, took a long drag and set the pack on the nightstand. She leaned over him, her soft breasts pressed against his chest as she reached for his smokes. "When did you start again?" he asked.
She moved back and tucked the sheets under her arm, contemplating her cigarette. "Today," she said, a small cloud of smoke escaping her lips. She looked at him, his tears obvious on his face. "You okay?" It was his turn to be quiet.
He pushed the sheets back, stood up and wandered over to the balcony doors. There was a chill in the room, or was it just her? He wrapped his goose-fleshed arms around himself and stared at the random streams of water running down the glass and the night lights of the city shimmering through the rain.
A flash of lighting illuminated the horizon. He counted in his head, "one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four one..." a clap of thunder. It was an old habit: calculating the distance of the storm. He took a long drag from his Marlboro and opened the doors. Wind blew a spattering of rain onto his naked body as he stepped out. It felt good, every drop washing her smell from him.
"What is it called?" He pondered, "Vertigo? The pull from below, the sudden urge to step off the edge, to fly." He could feel it pulling at his soul. "Come to me, just jump and it will all be better." He stood hypnotized, looking longingly at the sidewalk below. A few cars splashed through the streets and a siren off in the distance raced to an unlikely fire in a rain-soaked city.
"What are you doing?" She asked, "You're going to catch a cold. Come in, I'll bring you a towel." He didn't see her standing at the doors, the comforter wrapped around her shoulders––he couldn't, she was outside of his vortex, the black hole surrounding him from the moment she had told him.
They had just finished making love. It wasn't really making love; they never made love. They fucked. There had never been any love to make. He realized that now. Was that all he had been to her? A surrogate penis, a cock to fill her emptiness? He flicked his cigarette over the edge and watched it drift down, like he wanted to do. Little red specks (of blood) dotted the sidewalk and then were quickly extinguished. His mind was wandering, his thoughts darting, what had she said? "I've met someone else." Was that all? Who was he? Had she said that much? He couldn't recall. Every time he tried to, this voice kept saying, "Come to me, just jump and it will all be better." He pressed his waist against the cold metal and leaned over.
"Damien." She broke his hypnoses. He stepped back. She stood there at the door holding a towel. He could see her now. He could see everything.
He took it from her and went inside. "I'm sorry, it's just..." she couldn't finish. There was no apology, no explanation that could make things better. Is that why she had allowed him to come to her?
*****
"Damien, can you come over?" Her soft voice asked on the phone longingly. "I need you." He had looked over at his clock: 11:37. He'd been asleep for an hour.
"What is it?" he asked. He always asked but knew what these late night calls were. She never seemed to need him except then. Three years. Three years and it had always been him that pursued her. The daylight meetings, the walks in the park, concerts, old movies on rainy Sunday afternoons. . . it was him, but late at night she chased him. Maybe this time he wouldn't go. But he knew he would, and so did she.
He let himself in with his key and found her sleeping in her bed, her form gently rising and falling. He quietly walked in and slid his hand under the covers. She stirred as he massaged her feet, working her warm toes with his fingers. He slid his head under and kissed the soft pad of her foot, the faint scent of baby powder tickling his senses.
A soft moan escaped her lips when his hand found the inside of her leg and gently pushed it aside so his mouth could feel the soft skin on her legs. She tensed as he kissed and caressed, gently awakening her passion.
"Oh lover," she exhaled when the stubble on his cheek met the silky skin of her inner thigh. The hot aroma of her nest drew him in closer.
His nose touched the nub of her clit as his whiskers scratched the inside of her legs. Her hands found his hair and wove through the light curls. His tongue drew circles amongst the short hairs on her mound, lapping up stray drops of juice, which escaped from her growing arousal. She ran her hands down the side of his head, putting it in place to fulfill her desire.
His hands ran up under hers, across the soft expanse of her stomach, then over the gentle slope of her bosom. Her small breasts were pushed together. He cupped them with his hands, and then let them go. His palms circled her nipples, stimulating them, stimulating her, both rising, hardening.
Her hands cupped the side of his head and he was deaf, her soft moans unable to be heard. His tongue ran the length of her, the tip barely inside, the top pressed against folds of her labia, his lip quivering on her clitoris. Her taste was strong on his tongue. He swallowed it, then gathered more, running his tongue up, moving it from side to side until it came to the base of her button.
She gripped his head harder as he ran his tongue over her clit, pressing it in hard, feeling the grove at the top cross his tongue before running it back down again.
He slid his hands down her warm body. They found her hands and clenched them, fingers woven together in a tight embrace, arms locked and outstretched. Her hips moved up to meet his mouth with every passage of his tongue over her.
He let go of her hand and cupped the heat of her pussy, then drew his long finger up to meet his tongue, licking her sweet juice from it. His finger moved back down, tickling her soft, moist skin before sliding inside. A long breath escaped her as he rhythmically fucked her with his finger, curving it around inside, pushing it in as deep as it would go, before slowly sliding it out again. Another finger met it, and they explored together.
She was on the brink. He could feel it: the sweat on her palm against his, the short breaths and slight quiver erupting through her body. "I need you," she whispered.
She took his head in her hands once again and forcefully pulled him up. His tongue ran through the neatly trimmed hairs of her womanhood, across her stomach, and through the valley of her breasts, tasting the salty beads of sweat as they began to form on her body in anticipation.
Their tongues met. They fought a mighty war of excitement, lashing at each other, battling for desire. Their mouths locked together and the battle continued, tongues chasing each other in and out, pushing and pulling, undulating and writhing.
Her hand found his cock and teasingly squeezed it. Her thumb wiping the drops of pre-cum from the tip then she guided the head into position. He let it just sit there for a moment to contemplate it's upcoming expedition. She pulled her hand up to her mouth and sucked the glistening drops from her thumb.
A soft whimper escaped her lips as his cock penetrated her in a harsh thrust. He stopped, their bodies entwined under the sheets, as close as two people could become. She held him to her, their heads close enough to hear each other's thoughts, their hearts beating in unison. The same beat as the pulse from her insides against his entrenched manhood.
He slowly slid out of her, almost completely, the rounded head barely blocking the entrance, then pushed in again. She squeezed her muscles, making her canal even tighter than it already was. He pushed through it, natural lubricant easing the passage.
