hair. sweat. hands.
the slow kisses, the shallow breaths, the swallowed moans. she does not look at him (she will not) but a touch, a whisper, a press of lip against collarbone and she finds she cannot look away, not from that long, lingering look he is giving her, something like the pounding of blood in her ears; not from his hair curled and damp down his forehead; not from the way his lips shape around her name, over and over, restless, wanting, like the call of ghosts—a little sad, a little unreal.
but he offers up his wrist like he is something to be devoured, what’s left of him free for her to plunder, to take. she watches him like he is a figure fast disappearing in her rear view mirror, a sort of careless resignation: to the fact that this will always be the way that it is, and that she thinks it enough. it has to be. but she likes that, this urgency of forever. It makes her a little more reckless, a little more alive, a little more inclined to reach for him, touch her lips to his wrist. and with a bite of her teeth she breaks his skin, and then his heart.