“Eyes open. I want to see you. Always,” he commands. He sounds strained, at the far edge of control, and I feel a small amount of pride. Okay, I’m not that bad at this. His hands continue the massage, and my hips sink sleepily against the covers where he holds them. Then, in a sudden movement, he slides inside me. The feeling is bewildering. I stop my cry on its way out. Not because it does not hurt, but because this is not a moment for a cry or for a cliché glass-breaking scream. This is my resurrection and, I have a feeling, perhaps his redemption. These are moments when the soul does the calling and the body must listen. My fingers dig into his arms and I breathe. He watches me with awe, then kisses my lips.
“Almost there,” he says gently, and I realize he has remained silent too. He thrusts deeper and stops as he reaches the farthest confines of my body, into dark, unknown places. At the full, achy feeling, my teeth clamp down on his lower lip to ease the impact. He gives me time to adjust. Slowly, I release his lip, kissing it, afraid that I hurt him. He smiles.
“Beautiful, Elisa,” he whispers. His husky voice turns my name into music. I relax, and he pulls back slowly. Despite the ache, I feel empty immediately and want more.
“One more time,” he murmurs, and now he flies inside me without stops. My fingers dig again into his arms but I’m adjusting. It’s not pain exactly; it’s a desperate ache that wants more of him, not less. He rests again. Of their own accord, my hips shift needily against his.
He smiles a pure, unadulterated smile and starts moving over and over, without any stops this time. There is only fullness and a slow rhythm I can follow. I let my lungs free and moans that have nothing to do with pain surround us. I wind my arms around his neck and he wraps my legs around his waist. My hips move hesitantly at first, but he guides them until they undulate eagerly against him. He picks up his rhythm and I falter, trying to keep up. I cannot.
He reaches a sharp crescendo, harder, faster and fuller than before. He grasps my hips, tilts them up and thrusts in the same motion, blindingly exquisite and impossibly deeper. I jolt to the edge of the bed, my head lolls back and my hair tumbles to the floor. He grasps my shoulder and pins me down so I don’t move. Then his hand closes around my throat. Not enough for me to lose air, but enough to lose everything else. With every thrust, I gasp for oxygen. His grip loosens, and he kisses my throat. Another thrust. Two. Three. His teeth clamp beneath my ear and my blood blooms there. My moans change to cries as my body builds. My insides begin to convulse and clutch against him desperately. He puts more weight behind his thrusts. Six. Seven. My vision darkens, my ears ring. Eight. Nine. I explode. One single word fires through my lips. His name. He thrusts once more and comes with a cry of his own, convulsing and, at last, stilling on top of me.
We stay like this—it could have been minutes or hours. The sound of our harsh breathing fills the air. The scent of steel mixes with sandalwood and cinnamon. Tonight in our no-man’s land; we stopped time. No clocks. No past. No future. Just this one bubble, shimmering at the edges.
Slowly, consciousness arrives. At first like a taste in my mouth, then a thought, then an afterthought. I move through my thoughts, rushing over past fantasies, ex-flames, ex-versions of me. Nothing compares. All that I find on the other side is a new me. And, despite all the paintings, I only now feel like a masterpiece.
I cannot move my limbs but I turn my head and kiss the top of his where it is still resting on my chest. He stirs and moans incoherently. He rises slowly with me still soldered to him, and rolls on his back. My hands are lost in the expanse of his palms, my fingers twined with his.
He opens his eyes. They are peaceful, content. For once, nothing is raging there. He reaches behind me and pulls out. The hollowness left behind must show on my face because he smiles.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. I think I found where I want to be buried.” His voice is hoarse and husky. He chuckles at his own pun.
“How are you feeling?” he asks then, in a serious tone.
I smile. “You’ll need to teach me some words for that.”
“I’d rather hear your words first.” The V appears between his eyebrows. I reach a finger to smooth it.
“Hmm, all right. Happy, content, orgasmic, ecstatic, surreal—” I start laughing because he rubs his stubble against my breasts and retaliates with a bite.
“Do you need a thesaurus, Elisa?” The V is gone and his eyes sparkle with humor.
“No, I like your dirty words better.”
“Elisa, you haven’t heard my dirty words yet.” He laughs and kisses me lightly. “Apart from your newfound struggle for words, how was the rest for you? Did I hurt you?” He sounds worried.
“Well, I don’t have much experience but from my perspective, things don’t get any better than that. I believe you would be better suited to answer that question, however, given your obvious authority and expertise on the subject,” I tease, in my most scientific tone.
He simply laughs, twisting and untwisting a lock of my hair in his fingers.