The Brooklyn Bridge is lit in the window. We have not closed the blinds. We are not going to.
I take my time.
She lets me.
I get her t-shirt off. I get her jeans off. I study her in the loft light the way I have not been allowed to learn her in any room we have been in together. The cabin was bleeding. The alley was furious. The kitchen island was the surrender.
This is the slow.
I take her mouth. I take her throat. I find the place at the curve of her ribs where her body is most ticklish, because I am paying attention now.
She makes a sound when I find it.
The sound is not a sound she has made before.
The sound is mine now.
I get my mouth on her.
The first taste is her.
Sweet. Addictive.
"You have any idea what you taste like?"
Her hand tightens in my hair.
"What?"
I look up at her.
"Mine."
I work the outer first. The crease of her thigh where her hip meets her body. The soft ridge below her belly that flexes when she tries to press up.
She has her hand in my hair. The hand is not pulling. The hand is just there.
I find her.
She makes a sound I have not heard from her. Not the alley sound. Not the kitchen island sound. The third sound.
I am going to remember the third sound for the rest of my life.
Her thigh closes against my shoulder. I move her thigh. She lets me move it. Her hand tightens in my hair.
I stay where I am being told to stay.
I work at the place she wants me to work. I move down and get my tongue inside her, so I know what she is on the inside, the way I have learned what she is on the outside. She makes a different sound. Higher. Less guarded.
The higher sound goes into me through my mouth and does not come back out.
I come back up. I keep working her until her breath does the thing it does. Until her hand comes loose in my hair because every other muscle is doing the work of the moment.
She comes against my mouth.
I do not move.
I let her have it for as long as she needs.
