Page 48 of Way Down Deep

I’d knock that hand off my belt buckle and grab you by the wrist, all but dragging you past the kitchen and down the hall, into my room. It’s dark. I slam the door behind us.

You probably can’t make out much of anything aside from the gap in the curtains, the slice of streetlight there. But you’d feel my messy covers as I lay you down across my bed. Cool cotton, almost cold—this room’s always cold. But then me, above you, burning alive.

Isee it all—the room, the light, you. And I feel you. I feel that urgency in the way you grab me and drag me and lay me down. In the way you slam that door. It takes me higher than I’ve been before. It makes me react in kind: almost wildly, I think. Bucking up against you before you’ve done a thing. Begging for more instead of being patient.

I can’t be patient with you. I don’t want to be anymore. I want you bare, and my greedy, grasping hands are there to make that happen. They’re wrenching at whatever clothes you might be wearing, too desperate suddenly to stop.

Please tell me you don’t want me to stop.

Idon’t, no. I’ve never wanted anything worse than I want this. But the thought of your hands, grasping at my sweater and my jeans… That changed things. That made me want to slow this all down. To imagine this is us, for real. Together, in the same dark room… I want to tell you stop, just for a minute. Slow down. I want to switch on the light so I can see you. I don’t want to miss an inch of your skin or a single expression passing across your face.

Lie down with me, on our sides. Let me kiss you for an hour, until you’ve learned everything that people spend high school figuring out, one awkward teenage kiss at a time. Just feel what I do, try to do the same back. Would you like that?

Now I’m blushingover the thought of my clumsy rushing—but even that has a sweetness to it. It feels good to stumble and crash headlong into things, and then have you catch me, guide me, show me how this should go. Is that crazy? It feels a little crazy, but I don’t care.

Because you wanting to see me makes me crazier. And the thought of getting those awkward teenage kisses—yeah, that’s even better. I think of you saying part your lips for me or put your hand in my hair, and I go ever so slightly out of my mind.

Though I don’t quite know why. I just know that I’m a seething mess, long before the hour of kissing is up. By the third touch of your lips I’m probably pleading with you for more, body bucking on the bed, always trying to go a little too far. Can you see me like that? Can you see how I really am right now?

I’m smiling. It made me smile to think of you bucking and squirming with impatience, so I’ll take pity on you—no full hour of kissing.

I want to rush too, trust me. But if this were reality… It wouldn’t be like these texts. I couldn’t go back the next day, relive each and every thing that was said and done with perfect recall. And I don’t want to miss anything. So I suppose that’s how we’d be, stranger—you rushing, me slowing you. I find that quite charming, actually.

Now tell me this—when I undress you, are you shy? Or do you not even bat an eye?

Ithinkit would have to be both at the same time. Thinking about what you would think of me would make me want to stop you. Especially if you did it the way I think you would. Slowly, I bet. Peeling off one piece at a time. Maybe savouring every step, because you’re right. That’s you.

Guilty.

And I’mthe one who wants to rush. I’m the one who’s been starved all these years; I’m the one who feels impatience so deeply it’s like being dominated by it. It overrides everything else—a thirst that I can’t check or satisfy.

It would definitely get the better of any shyness, eventually. I know it would, because it’s getting the better of me now. It makes me want to tell you things I shouldn’t: like what you’d find as you took off each item of clothing.

So tell me.

The flushall over every inch of me, the stiffness of my nipples, the roll of my hips and the wetness between my legs. It’s all there, just waiting for you to uncover. And I want you to uncover it, I do. Never doubt that.

Fuck.

Now it’s me who’s wanting to rush. But I won’t. Because you’re right, you know me well enough after even this short time.

I have brown eyes. I don’t know if I ever even mentioned that before, but I do. I have brown eyes, and they make an inventory of you, every new sliver of pale skin I uncover as I undress you. That much I’ll take slow. I don’t ever want to forget this moment, the first time I get to see your naked body.

But what you said, and what I’ll find—you, wet. That changes everything. All my best romantic intentions to take this at a glacial pace, it all falls apart at that little word. My cock’s aching, here in reality, and there in that room we’ve created together. And it’s not cold anymore. All I want is to get inside you, so bad it’s like I’m dying every second it’ll take to get there.

I’m dying just seeingyou say that. Thinking of the way I look between my legs—slick, so slick—being the thing that pushes against your control. Your need to take things slow. And imagining what you look like now, as you imagine me like this.

Are you still inside your jeans, pressing against the material all thick and heavy? I think so. I think you’re straining in a way that makes me want to grab, to unzip, to map things out greedily with my hands.

But you’ve already held me back twice. You’ve pressed the need for patience into me, and that stops me short.

Do you still want me to stop short?

Fuck no. And fuck patience.

I was wrong. All we’ve ever had were words. Words and nothing but words. So the first time we ever touch and kiss and lay our eyes and hands on each other, let it be your way. There’s no other way it could be. Fuck words.

Also, fuck my clothes. Fuck this sweater. I peel it away along with the shirt beneath it, fling them to the floor. Your curious hands—fuck those too, if only for the moment, because I need to get these pants off before they strangle me.

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