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I ache for him.
I sink my fingers into his hair and push myself against him. It won’t hurt, I tell myself. It won’t make a difference when the sun rises.
Because this is a dream, and dreams aren’t real, and they don’t come true.
He sweeps two fingers along me, easing my underwear out of the way, and settles his cock against me. I push down as he pushes up, our bodies coming together in perfect sync.
The power shifts.
It’s not about him or me. It’s not about tying up or positions or fantasies.
It’s about us. It’s about the emotion that lies beneath it and expressing that the only true way we know how to.
And it is, because he moves slowly and torturously inside me. My hips grind slowly, in time with him. But our kiss never breaks. Our grip never wavers and our tears don’t stop falling.
Because pain and love are one and the same. To love, you must feel pain. To feel pain, you must love. They go hand in hand.
It’s endless, these movements. They go on forever, neither wanting to let go because we know that, when we do, it’s over. It’s back to the pain and loneliness of the past twenty-four hours.
Finally, it builds inside. The heat prickling across my skin and the tension clenching my muscles erupts, shuddering through my body. But I don’t cry out, I don’t scream, I don’t shout his name.
I whimper. Just a tiny whimper, one that mingles with the salty taste of tears on my lips.
He’s quiet, too, as his release hits. Almost silent. I know though. I know because he grips me tight, his kiss turning desperate as he holds himself still and empties inside me.
I don’t want to cry anymore, I realize. I can’t. It hurts more than the pain.
So I keep my grip on him, kissing the tears on his cheeks, and he kisses mine, and I bury my face into his neck.
I know that, when I wake, he will be gone.
But when I fall asleep, he’ll be here.
For one last time, I want us to fall together. To spin dizzily although it’s only into sleep. I want to remember this moment for the pureness and the love flowing through my veins. Not for tears and heartache.
Because sometimes, pain can be just as beautiful as love.
No matter how ugly it really is.
I push the door to Starbucks open, and immediately, my eyes find Marchant in the corner. I push my way through the coffee shop, instantly regretting to meet him here. Regretting meeting him at all, even if it has been a week since I got back from L.A. and this is the fourth rearranged date.
Because, ugh, this smell.
My stomach churns and I swallow desperately, begging the three sips of water I chanced before leaving my apartment to stay down. They do, for now, and I slide into the chair opposite Marchant.
“Hi,” I mutter.
“You don’t look like you’re doing too well” he says in greeting.
I look at him flatly. “I’ve been on a first-name basis with the inside of my toilet for the last damn week. Should I look good?”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Have you seen your doctor for any anti-nausea medication?”
I sigh. “I’m going to call her in the morning.”
“You should rest. If I knew you were sick, I would have come to you. Would you like to go home?”
“No,” I shake my head. “It’s too suffocating in there.”
