Write with Me

March 27, 2018

 Part 5

 

Write On Me

 

 

My stomach was pressed onto the mattress, my head tilted to the side, and my heart was pounding with an intensity that made my head spin. Surely he could hear this cursed organ in my chest, surely he could sense my nervousness and feel my pulse racing. But if he did, if he could tell how nervous and excited and anxious I was, he didn’t comment on it.

 

I felt his hand sweep my hair off to the side, gently, caressing it as if it were finely spun silk, expensive and luxurious. His skin brushed against the nape of my neck, and a shiver curved its way down each vertebrae of my spine. I had to fight the shudder. “Are you cold?” His voice was soft, gentle.

 

His skin was against my skin; ice against fire. He knew I wasn’t cold. “No.”

 

Ten fingers slid down my back, stopping halfway. He touched the material of my bra, running his fingertips along the clasp. No words were spoken by his mouth, but his hands were asking me question after question, inquisitive and curious.

 

“Go ahead,” I told him, but couldn’t stop the tremor that slipped through.

 

A second passed. Another. Then, I felt it—the clasps sliding and slipping, tension dissolving, snapping. Gently, faintly, feather light, he parted the material off to the sides of my ribs. My heart jumped; my breath hitched.

 

Briefly, almost in a blind panic, I wondered what my mother would think.

 

The boy behind me seemed to enjoy prolonging my torture, because his hands hesitated on the skin of my back, soft, artist’s hands. Angel’s hands. Devil’s hands. Tender, relaxing, chaotic.

 

And then, and then, and then.

 

His mouth. His lips. Pressed on my skin. Just between my shoulder blades. This time, the shudder tore through me, unable to be contained.

 

Something was placed upon the denim of my jeans, something flat and solid, and it wobbled slightly as the boy behind me nudged at it. “This is going to be a little cold.” His words were deep but quiet, and I didn’t miss the amusement that was laced in his throat.

 

This boy, I knew without a doubt in my spinning head, was someone I trusted so deeply and so irrevocably. I trusted him with my body entirely, and I would time and time again.

 

His right hand was pressed against my ribcage, curved over my skin with a loving touch, and his left hand found leverage with my spine. In one precise movement, the paintbrush slipped over my back, paint mixing on my body. And I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the quick beating of my heart to hear his measured, focused, methodical breathing, all the while going crazy over how much of me he was seeing.

 

I was his canvas, he was my artist, and he was drawing me to life.

 

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