Page 192 of Sinful Desires
When we got back, we’d slipped into a little filthy and perfect routine. The kind that only two people obsessed with each other could survive.
That was the beauty of living under the same roof as the man who fucked you like he owned your soul. We didn’t have to sneak around. No lies. No clothes half the time.
We made loveeverywhere.
Bent over the kitchen counter, legs spread on the living room rug, up against the hallway wall. In my bed. His bed. His shower, where he’d fucked me until my knees had given out.
He whimpered the filthiest things in my ear.
We hardly ever left the condo except for when we hit the gun range. He taught me how to shoot all types of different guns, and honestly? I gotwaybetter than I’d ever expected.
We lived on takeout and orgasms.
He told me what it was like being buried in submarines for months, what it had felt like to miss the sun, the sound of whales scraping the hull, sharks circling while you tried not to lose your mind.
I told him how I sang to survive. Why music was the only way I could scream without being punished.
One night, wrapped around each other and half drunk on sex and sweat, he told me he loved French poetry. I told him to prove it.
Three nights later, after he’d fucked me so slowly I came sobbing against his mouth, we lay tangled up in his bed, his fingers tracing my spine.
Then he’d leaned close and whispered the poem in my ear.
Tu es venue: comme une étoile filante
traverser ma nuit vide
et depuis
je vis les yeux levés.
Tu es celle
qui brille le plus
et qui est maintenant
à ma portée: ma lumière tombée du ciel.
Je ne fais plus de vœux
Tu es là
Dans mes bras
l’étoile que je croyais
ne jamais pouvoir toucher.
Ta peau a le goût: de l’éternité brève
Et j’ai l’âme en feu
chaque fois
que tu respires contre moi.
Dans ton cœur, je brûle d’y exister.
