My breathing turns shallow. I try to ground myself. I count in my head, feel the coolness of the tile under my palms, but nothing works.
I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and gather what’s left of myself to shut off the water.
I need to get out of here.
I move forward and grab a towel.
Drying off is hard, and it takes me fifteen minutes to pull on my linen pyjamas.
Then I walk into my practice and drop onto the couch.
I cross my arms, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I search for patterns in the texture, like trying to find animals in clouds. Anything to keep today’s images out of my mind.
I turn my head left, and there I find the book on trigger points, still open at the exact same page Tom had left it on.
A bittersweet scoff escapes me, thinking about this morning, at how oblivious I’d been at the start of the day.
I was ready to do the unthinkable the moment he said it. Just that one sentence of him begging me not to stop was all I’d needed.
I wanted to undo his shorts with my teeth, trace the tip of my tongue along his length, feel him twitch in my hands. Then take him slow, so slow he’d beg. Or maybe I would. Beg for more of those physical reactions.
I wanted to hear my name breaking into a moan every time I took him deep in my throat. On that damn table, withouta thought about anything but tasting him, feeling his fingers tangled desperately and possessively in my hair. And I wouldn’t stop. Not until his whole body arched, and I had him shaking in my hands as I swallowed his cum.
Fuck.
That would’ve been so bad.
Scandalous doesn’t even begin to cover it. What the hell had I been thinking? I’m a disaster. I thought I had things under control with my meds, but I’m still a fucking disaster.
I grip my hair and let out a grunt.
But I loved every moment of it.
It’s insane that the only thing keeping the darkness from crashing in right now is the thought of how we lose ourselves in each other. Over and over again, but never all the way.
Just for a moment, the flashes stay away. No chaos. No screams.
Just him and that stupid table, our hands connected and him looking at me like he was done keeping things decent.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes until colours bloom behind my lids. When I open them again, the book is still there.
Trigger points, right.
I shut the cover. The thud feels oddly satisfying to my ear. Then something catches my eye.
A guava.
On my glass table.
Why is there a guava on my table?
I narrow my eyes. There’s a note, and next to it… a set of suspicious sticky fingerprints.
Thought you’d fancy something sweet and juicy. Try this. I’ll volunteer later. – T.
My hands tremble as I curl the edges of the note between my fingers. The longer I stare, the more his handwriting smears into a blur.
