This is a perfect example of when I would rather toss the notebook aside and lay naked with him on the ground than have him read any of those pages.
“Okay, whatever you say, Leo,” I scoff. “I would hardly call my written rants art.”
“Why do you always do that, Sen?” I sense immediate agitation in his tone. His usual playful demeanor dissipates as his jaw tenses. Notebook in hand, he inches closer. Even on bent knees, his six-foot frame towers over me.
The wind picks up, intensifying his woodsy scent, sending it past my nostrils and what feels like right through me. The way the moonlight reflects on his face, even with his hair half covering it, makes his usually brown eyes look black as the sky that we are sitting under. I know he doesn’t mean to come off so rough, but that’s the thing with Leo, he leads with his emotions. He is a gentle giant who sometimes doesn’t realize how fucking intense he can be. It’s something I love about him, but in this moment, I can’t help but to feel intimidation overcome me.
Before I get a chance to respond, he sets the notebook down, taking my hand in his.
“Do what?” I ask, trying to pull away from his tight grip. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he increases his grip ever-so-slightly as he pulls me in even closer to him.
“Sell yourself short. You are a fucking goddess. You are perfect to me,” he praises as he takes his other hand to my hair, tugging my head back, exposing my neck once again to him. He leans into my ear, whispering, “You hear me, Sen? A fucking goddess,” he reminds me before releasing me from his grasp.
We remain in an awkward, intense silence a few moments more. Unsure of what I should say to shift the mood, I remember the iPod he brought over from his car. I scan the blanket, searching for where he placed it. I spot it on the edge of the dark wool fabric, where its blackened screen makes it blend in with the darkness that surrounds us. I reach for it, hoping to put our evening back on track.
“How about some music?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood. Hoping if we put our playlist on, the tense vibe between us will dissipate.
He takes a deep breath in and, as he exhales, the tension that built in his jaw slowly begins to melt.
“That would be nice,” he replies, finally softening his tone. He extends his hand so I can give him the iPod. He turns it on, swiping the control wheel, looking for a song.
As soon as he presses the play button, I recognize the somber instrumental immediately. “I Miss You” by Blink 182 begins to play on the scratchy speaker he has the iPod plugged into.Our song.
“To set the mood, of course,” he says, cracking his usual pearly white smile, bringing me right back to melting for him.
He picks up the notebook once more and begins skimming the pages. I told him he could pick whatever he wanted to read. He shuffles through before landing on a random page.
“Found it,” he exclaims, all giddy. It’s so cute how excited he is to read my writing, even though I am dying inside.
Dread begins to fill me, as I lick my lips to speak. “Great, just let me know when you’re done reading,” I say, as I settle back in my spot, trying to focus on the music.
Then, just as I am about to close my eyes, I hear him clear his throat. A pit forms in my stomach as he begins to read … out loud.
Seriously, dude?
“Fractured we remain, scarred by our past and wary of the future. Together we sit waiting to be mended from a pain that feels like it’s beyond repair. Will the God who plagued us with such despair, fix what he started? Or will it be us? The heathens, the heretics, the lost souls, who pick up the pieces he so conveniently has forgotten. Our hearts, both broken into pieces, can be joined together like a locket. To make what is broken, whole. To make what is full of doubt, full of peace. One side mine, one side yours. Together we will stitch what needs to be repaired. I hold the needle; you hold the thread. Together we weave a wicked love story from the dead.”
As soon as the word “dead” falls from his lips, he slams the notebook closed, startling me. I look up at him and can’t help but feel the intensity radiating from his stare. He remains silent, though his body language is screaming something primal. Without a word, he lowers himself to where I sit, taking my chin in his hand.
“You’re going to be famous one day, Sen. I only hope I will be there to see it.” His sultry baritone distracts my body, while my mind is trying to decode what feels like an ominous statement.
He brings his mouth to mine, gently biting my lip before crashing his tongue against mine. Shifting his attention to my neck, his lips travel down to my collarbone making my legs feel weak. Every kiss is full of passion and feels more electrifying than the last.
He continues to kiss me, moving his hands down toward the waistband of my leggings. My mind is fighting my body. I want him, but I can’t help but get stuck on what he just said.
He hopes he will be there to see it?
“Be there to see it?” I blurt, unintentionally killing the mood.
“You don’t have to overthink me. Just let me in,” he whispers as he moves past the waistband his hand has been stationed at. Gliding his palm in between my legs, he moves the lace of my thong to the side as he begins to work his fingers on my clit, making me quiver.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praises. “I like when you come undone for me.” The whole time he is pleasing me, I can’t take my eyes off him. There is a hunger in his stare, a desperation that is calling me to him. Usually, I close my eyes and let our bodies lead, but this feels different, more intense. I can’t help but feel there is something he wants to say, and it has nothing to do with my shitty poem he just read aloud.
I begin to unbutton his pants as he lays me down on the blanket, removing my leggings and thong, so that I am bare from the waist down on the now gravel-covered blanket.
As soon as I finish unbuttoning his pants to release the bulge that has fully formed beneath the denim, he wastes no time entering me. In one swift, abrupt motion, he guides his hard length inside of me, startling me with the intensity of his thrusts. I become lost in the passionate need in his eyes as he drinks me in right here in the middle of the cemetery, probably by someone’s poor grandmother’s grave. I feel like this kind of late-night tryst would be a one-way ticket to Hell, if I believed in such a thing.
Heaven and Hell, it’s all subjective. For Heaven is in this moment with him, ravishing me here for all the spirits to see, and Hell is any moment he is unable to consume me with his presence.
