Shelter from the Storm

It started innocently enough, as it always does. Curled together laughing, my head on his chest, his hand in my hair, two friends enjoying each other. Curled together in one anther's energy like a litter of playful kittens or puppies. Warm, calm, friendly wrapped up safe feeling.

We always muck it up with words. Not in the way I am used to, in fact everything about this situation is backwards. Past experience, a dozen years of it, says that mucking up with words usually leads in the opposite direction of erotic horizontal positions. For us, well, the more we talk about our fuckered situations, the more we seem to be pulled together and into each other. And onto each other, hands and mouths and thighs, but I get ahead of myself.

Some transformation takes us places when we create a circle, or even just raise energy a little bit. That inner fire we keep banked for the majority of our existence flares alive and comes crashing out and into each other. We each feed off of the other and that heat is so seductive and comforting and exciting and intoxicating and, well, glorious, I can't even try to resist.

Does he? I'm afraid to ask.

We talk. We talk about the reasons we shouldn't couldn't and won't let this wildfire crash through our lives. And then it's way too late and our lips have met and we're tasting that storm we create between us, feeding it and each other.

All these weeks I've been thinking that I surely couldn't be remembering correctly. His fingers on my neck can't be so compelling, his lips on mine can't be so intoxicating. His mouth moving on my neck and ear and back to my mouth again can't be so erotic.

And oh my God, was I lying to myself.

It is all that and worlds more besides.

His mouth gentle, then demanding, his tongue forceful but tentative at first and then drinking in my lips and crawling into me and I get lost in that taste and texture.

I become hyper-aware of his fingers on the skin of my neck, brushing my hair away. His mouth moves then from mine, trailing up my jaw line to my ear and down to my shoulder, his hand pulling the collar of my shirt aside to expose more of my skin.

I'm aching to feel the bite of his teeth, feel him hard and feeding on my flesh as we each feed on this feeling.

But he is gentle, even in his urgent caress his hands are careful, his mouth demanding but not overly forceful, hands placed lightly on me.

His skin is warm under my palms, sliding up his back, between his heat and the cotton of his shirt my hands explore his strong back, pulling him harder to me, like he needed me to confirm any more clearly how much I enjoy his exploration of me.

I'm on my back then, suddenly it seems, because I don't quite recall changing positions, the whole event is all about sensation to me, not linear time.

His lips torture my ear, his breathing harsh and so sweetly sexy in my ear, his fingers on my shoulders, in my hair.

And then fully clothed I can feel him inside me. I know it is an illusion, we are both covered in two layers of clothes at least, and still, I feel him there. Not just his obvious pleasure and arousal pushing against me through constraining denim, but honest to Goddess inside. I wrap my thighs around him just as I would if we had been bare skin to skin. And my breath catches in my throat I want so bad to cry out loud. Instead I press my mouth to his shoulder and breathe in the scent of his skin, my fingers stroking his hair and his hips rock with mine until I'm not sure if we are still clothed, still in this room or even on the same planet we started out on. Nothing at all exists except the sensation I can still feel deep inside of me.

His hardness, thighs, back, arms, makes me self consciously aware of my own softness.

Finally coming to rest, breathing hard and still holding each other, I am supremely aware of our physical differences.

It has been an extremely long time since I have felt so utterly female in the company of a so very overwhelmingly male presence.

Later he looks at me, not with blame in his magically changeable eyes, but quiet, caring, careful knowledge.

So casual with others around, we don't steal glances, act shy or coy to each other. Though I wish my knees weren't so weak I feel like I'm just learning to walk properly.

Sadly, I'm thankful he has more control than I'd like, so there are no marks on my pale skin where his lips and tongue seared my flesh, no imprints of teeth I so wish were left behind to map his passage.

I had a good reason to step up to the counter where he leaned casual and pleased with himself. I can't remember it now. Was it to prove the color of my eyes is blue not green?

Testing the theory that my eyes will change with mood, he leaned in to me, rubbing his beard on my neck, cheek, lips following to drive me crazy. I'm not sure if he proved the theory or not. I know his knee pushed gently between mine made my knees want to buckle.

I turned out the light so it wouldn't matter what colour my eyes were.

Quietly sitting, fingers twined together, softly speaking in the barely lit room.

Anybody could walk in, and maybe that is also part of the thrill, the danger added to an already out of control situation.

The third time is a charm goes the cliché, and all my fault this time in teasing, I should never have playfully asked if I'd misunderstood the past occasions of his rather (how did I say it?) obvious interest. Three, if I remember correctly, such incidents.

He rose above me, looking down with those changing eyes and in that low voice tells me that there was never any misinterpretation and kisses me, hands holding me, mouth moving over mine, in mine and then to the pale flesh of my throat. His hands take mine, he holds up my wrist to open his mouth over my pulse as he has just done at my neck.

His warm lips on my wrist, palm, fingers.

Again I am unbelievably undone. I can't remember a man ever kissing my hand like that, or ever finding myself turned to mindlessness by a kiss on the back of my hand. No dry chaste kiss on my palm will ever come close to the gentle assault of his lips, tongue and teeth on my skin.

His hand cupping my cheek slides so near my lips. I can't resist a taste. His thumb slides past my teeth, my tongue wraps around and over and did I hear him make an almost audible moan just then? His fingers one by one get equal treatment, tongue slipping over the pad of each finger, teeth pulling each digit deeper to suckle.

And I realize if I don't stop right now I may not be able to do so. Returning his hand to his own possession was a very difficult thing to do.

One whole night we spent alone and uninterrupted and not once did we flare out of control like this. Here in someone else's space we can't go thirty minutes without closing ourselves in some wild expression of this connection.

What kept us that night from the heat and so often since has failed to quench our hunger?

Perhaps we are just contrary. We do what isn't expected and enjoy the unexpected moment stolen.

Or perhaps we really don't trust ourselves to stop and need the safety valve we know is just on the other side of the door in this place.