I give him a questioning look as I catch my breath. But it's not even a second before he is spinning me against the wall and slamming me so hard against it, my cheek throbs from the impact. He's trying to set things back. To before that night in the shower, or just minutes ago when he showed me his face. He's trying to deny this. I have so many times bowed to his will without resistance. I've bent over, sucked, gagged, and braced—a passive participant as his prisoner of lust. I came, I dreamt about it, I waited for it through hours of soul-crushing loneliness. Part of that allowed me to hold on to the old Vesper. I could say that despite it all, he took, and I reluctantly abided. But she's gone now. I want more. I can finally admit that. In order to truly survive, I have to be all in. I have to get past the facade of this entire thing. For him to show me the hand he's been hiding, I'll have to show him mine.
As he peels the damp dress away from my backside, I twist away from the wall, to face him again. I glare into those eyes that are so clear they don't reflect my image. The act of rebellion sets him back just long enough for me to grab him and pull him into me, assailing his lips with mine. He lets out a heavy breath as he reciprocates for a moment, but then he pulls away again. I can feel it—his muscles tensing under my grip, nearly trembling, trying to stop himself from going down the path. The one where we truly see each other.
He turns me again, this time pressing his forearm against my upper back, frantically unbuttoning his jeans with the other hand. But I wrestle his confinement, my slick skin allowing me to slip out, again facing him. I push his arm to the side and weave my hand through his hair, pulling him towards me.
“No—” he says.
I suffocate the word with my mouth. He twists and moans into the kiss before sharply pulling away again. This time, picking me up and throwing me down on the bed, face-down.
I am a woman determined. He'll have to render me unconscious if he wants it this way. I know that inside of him he doesn't. I can taste it in his frantic kisses. I wriggle underneath him and twist onto my back as he tries to pull himself out.
This time, he lets me go, only to give himself enough time to take off his pants, so the next time he comes for me, he'll have two free hands. I struggle onto my feet in those moments. In seconds, he is standing across from me, the bed dividing us. He is completely nude, his tanned, muscled curves, leading to a frustrated erection. This headless body I have seen many times before, seems so different now that it is part of a person. His shining, heaving figure lurks, like a jungle cat waiting to pounce. But this time, instead of waiting on him, I run across the bed at him, pouncing him fearlessly, so that he has no choice but to catch me in his arms. He spins and stumbles back onto the bed, underneath me. I pull off my dress, exposing my already-swollen breasts to him. He sits up, wrapping one hand around me and the other bracing our weight against the bed.
“Don't,” I whisper. “Let me see you.”
“No…” he says, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. Normally so verbal when he fucks, he's almost silent during this frenzy.
I slip my tongue through his boyish pout and slide him inside of me. It's effortless and breathtaking at once. We both exhale into each other's mouths. I wrap my legs around him, pinning him to me, claiming victory over his stubborn attempt to fight this.
He's as deep in me as any man could ever get, and I grimace and moan at the painful filling of my pussy.
“Oh god,” I cry. “I can't hold on.” It's too much, he's too far inside of me.
As his hips weave against mine, he slides his hands up my nape and tugs my hair, pulling me away from him. For a moment I think he's going to come in for a last second maneuver, throw me on my stomach and fuck me in the ass, leaving me without an orgasm as a punishment. But instead, he watches me—my face, my body—riding him. In that moment, I get that chill, the one only he can give me, where I am singularly coveted. I am the only woman on earth. I am his. I don't have to compete with anything or anyone for his gaze.
He sits taller and slides both of his hands under my ass, boosting me up, so that he can worship my breasts. My breaths skip as his lips glide over the tender nipples. They ache, but his mouth finds a way to give them relief and draw out pleasure. It's impossible to hold on any longer as the pulsing deep in my core grows to a crescendo. I let out a series of wails, wrapping my arms around his head, smothering his face in my breasts. His cock thickens against my spasming walls, and a flood of his warmth releases inside of me. He collapses underneath me. My body goes soft, as if gripped and constricted until the moment of death and then released to see another day. I wither on top of him, skin to skin. Our bodies breathe like two parts of one living being.
He keeps his head turned away from me. I know he's confused. I know he's upset that he let it all get this far tonight.
I reach over and play with his tendrils. I've wondered for months what I would do if I ever got to see all of him. All I want to do is this simple ritual, a way to stay connected after something so intense and confusing. Until this point, every time he fucks me, he walks away. It feels like I'm being thrown overboard, left to fend for myself in a harsh, unforgiving sea. But this small act, it keeps me above water. And, if my gut is right, it's doing the same for him too.