Tonight, I find that I can say those words and give voice to the feelings I have harbored so long. Once nascent, they now feel resolute enough within my chest to convey in words to the object of my desire.
I know, I know. These sound like bathetic pining, all over-the-top and adolescent. I'm no simpleton; at least, I don't consider myself so. In coming here, I had no illusions about what his response to my suddenly exposing all this pent-up fire within me would be. At least, that's what I tell myself. But, truth is, there is conflict raging within me. I know, on the one hand, that this is no fairytale. No. I see those words fall from my lips and scatter all around our feet like so many stolen pearls spilling from my outstretched hands. They are my meager offering to him. There is no perfect still-frame where all stands still around us for the briefest instant, suspended between this moment and next. No schmaltzy swell of orchestra rises to affirm how I feel. And yet, on the other hand, I cannot help longing for stardust to fall from the sky and come to rest on the windowsill beyond his iron four-poster bed where I see we two moving together in a frantic, furtive way in my mind's eye. I can feel the aching desire for the warm, safe reassurance of hearing the same words uttered back to me.
But when I hear my own heartbeat rapping against my ribs, blood rushing in my ears, I know those words to be true. To me. They tumble from my mouth in nothing short of total, beautiful delirium. A frenzied heat courses through my body, and a heady tightness in my chest overflows. These mingle and spill from my lips in stuttered, slurred words before my cheeks go alight with self-consciousness. Even so, I want him to know. Want my words to carry just exactly how I feel to the object of my affection.
I cast my eyes downward. Gone is the invulnerability instilled by way of the ruddy liquid courage I downed-on an empty stomach, no less-after being called out by a classmate for an end-of-term toast just thirty short minutes ago. It was just a rushed drink at a little place nearby, but for some reason, it was enough to make this sound like the only course of action. I had pulled the collar of my parka up to my chin and stepped out into the wintery mix with one objective: to throw myself forward into a situation that could only descend into disaster or elevate me to exactly where I wanted to be, if only temporarily.
"You know, right?" I lean back against the cold metal of his door, my arms bent at the elbows and searching out the lock. My fingers fumble with it. He never locks the door. Not the dead bolt, at least. But this, I turn, and it seals the deal. There is no turning back now for either of us. I know I'm not supposed to be here, knew it from the first step I took on the way. Now, I bring my gaze up to meet his. I find I cannot hold it and allow my eyes to drink in his form.
He's taller than I by several inches, broad-shouldered and solid. And yet, he is sharply angular. My eyes flit from the shoulders I long to lean on and down his white broadcloth shirt—he never wears seasonally appropriate clothing in the winter. Just looking at him makes me shiver. I follow the line of this shirt down to his rather slender waist and to a pair of tight black slacks he's wearing. Bare feet. Did I mention the lack of seasonally appropriate clothing? The tops of his feet show a light covering of dark hair that matches the curly mass of almost black hair that falls in uneven tendrils around his eyebrows.
I lick my lips. Boldness is not one of my strong points. But tonight, I steeled myself against the chill of anxiety and the churning in my gut. On borrowed courage from the buzz of red wine, I trudged through the snow and to his door.
He let me in but said nothing. He let me speak my piece. I gave in to the tangle of emotions and heat of my desire. I stammered out that I had felt this way a long time, that he had to have noticed I was serious by now, that this wasn't just some sort of silly crush. There was no lecture from him tonight. There was no tired smile with the traces of unhappiness at its edges when he saw me. No friendly pat on the back and wishes for good luck and reminder that I would figure it all out. That things would come into focus. That I would realize it was infatuation. That I wasn't in-.
He said nothing when I uttered those words.
"Say something, won't you?" I entreat him now. I would almost rather he repeat the admonitions I can very nearly recite. Anything to ascertain that his displeasure at this nocturnal intrusion is not so great as to estrange us.
Still mute, he clears his throat and his left foot inches forward. And then he reaches out for me. When he touches me tonight, for the first time, really, butterfly wings flutter against my hot skin. He grasps my wrist. I feel a warm tingling dance across my skin and straight to my chest and racing heart. There is no way I can deny the heady, molten emotions welling up from my core.
He isn't lecturing me now but running his hands through my hair, his fingers tugging at my short locks. He isn't patting me on the back but gripping my ass from behind through the tight material of my ripped jeans. He isn't wishing me luck in figuring my confused emotions out, trying to keep his voice distant but whispering, "Yeah... You're so beautiful..." His mouth goes to my ear. The stubble of his dark beard prickles and I feel my lips curve up into a smile, partly because it tickles. And partly because I can feel myself being inundated with him. I let him pin me against the door now. My arms reach out for him. I run my hands through his wavy black hair, urging him to continue his attentions to my ear.
"You know it, right?" I persist. I close my eyes and nod to encourage his ministrations. I want this so badly. Want this from him. Want this with him. But I also want him to bare the same emotions in words. The urgent need to hear them assails me. Perhaps he's right after all. Perhaps it's just infatuation.
He brings his tongue to touch the ridge in my ear. I gasp, air escaping at once. I shudder air back into my lungs and whimper when his tongue touches on the crescent, tiny pin-pricks of ecstasy dancing there.
He pauses and whispers, "I know what?" And then his lips catch my lobe and they're tugging at it. I continue to whimper as he plays with my ear. I bare the need in my voice to him. A tremor tears through my legs now. They tremble beneath me. And then I feel myself collapse, legs dropping to one side. And I am in his arms. He holds me up, his sure, steady arm snaked around my waist. His hand tugs at the sharp protrusion of my hip bone. His desire, just as sure, presses against my abdomen. I moan in spite of myself. I am in the throes of beatific contentment. And my breath, once so calm and gentle, has now been torn ragged by his eager playfulness and the heat of my desire for this man.
"Please... At least just let me-let me catch my breath..." I plead.
I lift my eyes to stare into the dark pools of his eyes. Unruly dark locks cascade down past thick brows. He lets his breath out slowly, pulls his hair back, and then lets it go again. It licks at his eyelids with uneven tendrils. His eyes arch upward slightly, those little lines forming just at the edges, the way they do when he tries not to smile. But I know where to search out his smile. I know because you know these things when you feel this way about someone. When you want to trace every movement they make with your eyes and carve it all into you to keep, for always. I know to find his smile around the edges of his eyes. My fingertips go to those tiny lines, to find that secret smile. His coffee-brown eyes widen, flitting from my hands to my own eyes and back.
