Page 74 of The Pleasure of Panic

He lowers himself, his hands on my breasts. Just briefly, just for a moment he squeezes them. And then his hands descend with him, pausing to unbutton my slacks. Drag my zipper down. Slip them, and my panties, over my hips until they fall to the floor at my feet. His eyes never leaving mine.

He smiles.

I smile back. I can’t help it.

And something leaves me in that smile. The fear. The tension. The frustration.

His hands are on my thighs now, his thumbs pressing into the long muscles, easing their way between my legs until he makes me want to open them for him.

No words are exchanged. They’re not necessary. Just a few gentle touches that say more than words ever could.

I close my eyes because his breath is tickling the soft skin as he breathes in my scent.

What do I smell like?

Fear. And loneliness. And anxiety.

Panic. I smell like panic.

His tongue is there, flicking against my clit just as these words form in my head.

And there it is. The pleasure of panic incarnate.

I grab his hair, then loosen my fingers, wanting to be gentle with him for some reason. I open my legs wider as he forces his chin between them, his unshaven jaw scratchy and perfect as he moves his mouth against my opening.

Worship me, he said.

Yeah… that’s how it feels.

My knees buckle, but he holds me up. My legs begin to tremble, but he keeps me steady. Licking me, sucking me, his hands reaching up now to squeeze my breasts. I want to melt. I want to succumb to the feeling of floating that’s threatening to overtake all my practical sensibilities. I want to give in and give up at the same time.

And just as that thought manifests, I slide my back down the cool, cool glass of the window, unable —or unwilling— to keep standing up.

He chuckles a little, readjusting his body for my new position, resting himself on the floor, face between my now wide-open legs, hands on my still-trembling thighs.

My breath is ragged and uneven, but it matches the irregular hard thumping of my heart inside my chest. And when he places his whole mouth over my pussy, his tongue flicking incessantly against my clit, I can’t hold it in anymore.

I can’t keep it together.

And he says, “Just let go,” his words vibrating into me, like he’s reading my mind.

So I do.

Because I have no choice. I can’t stop it, and I wouldn’t want to anyway.

He licks at the wetness spilling out of me, my body writhing from the climax, my spine stiff, then soft, then stiff again as the waves of pleasure wash through me.

And then he stands, leans down, picks me up, and carries me to the bed where he lays me down. Gently, like I am something precious. And begins to undress himself.

I watch. I watch every single moment of it. I memorize the way his fingers unbutton his shirt. I burn the image of his chest muscles, his abs, that cut line that disappears into his pants, into my memory. So I can think about it—dream about it—later.

He takes off his jacket, then his shirt, and he’s bare from the chest up. I’m still wearing my cami top, so I sit up a little and bring it over my head, then reach around to unfasten my bra as he unbuckles his belt, removes his pants, and stands in front of me. Hard. Long. Thick. His cock almost pulsing with anticipation. I look at it, crave it, then look up at him and find his attention on my mouth.

I know what he wants.

We want the very same thing.

Him inside me.