“I have to go,” I told him.
But my eyes, winked with lust, said stay. He smiled.
His lean thumb tugged at my mouth. The glare from the noon sun flashed in his black-brown eyes as he came close. I raised my heels. Just my toes touched the ground, ten roots meshed with his. My mouth sought the nook where his chin met his neck. I bloomed.
I breathed in. Deep. I smelled trees. I smelled dew. I smelled life. He spent as much time in the wild as he could. A place of peace, far from the pain of his life. But not far from the pain in his mind. The Wild was his man on the cross. His god. And soon — mine as well.
My small self clung to his six foot four frame. My bare soles and his brushed the hard wood floors as we swayed. My heart played chords as my chest touched his.
His tongue grazed my top lip. A pulse of heat spread from there — to down there. Flesh met flesh. Moan met moan. I was just — there. With him. Not a week in the past there. Not a next two days there. Just there.
The earth moved. No. We fell.
His bed caught us. We laughed. The sheets rolled and rolled — waves of cool meshed with my warmth and his. At last, toe to toe, knee to knee, palm to palm, nose to nose — we stopped. The soft sounds of his breaths played on with mine.
I stroked the dots on his skin. So many. Scars of the sun. Each a bit brown, a bit red. I loved to trace these stars, some veiled by light clouds of his hair.
Lips touched. I breathed in. Trees. Lips moved. Space. Mine peeled off his like firm, sweet sap. A slow sad pull. No more, “just there.”
“I have to go,” I told him. He smiled.
image by: Michela Castiglione