@valentina-patronofthearts I love you and you're an amazing friend, and this one-shot is dedicated to the stories we were talking about writing back in terza media when we were young and full of unlikely daydreams (THANK GOD we haven't changed!!!)... so, enjoy bella! <3
I always knew he was a criminal. What I never expected was to fall in love with him.
I met him in Paris. It sounds so cliché, but I loved the thrill of it. Loved the weak excuse he used when he walked up to me in the park in front of the Eiffel Tower (“’scuse me, do you happen to have a spare cigarette?”) and the intensity burning in those brown eyes. I was just a college student then, thinking that my whole existence was a verging of miracles and Fate, as my scholarship had been accepted to study in the capital of France. I was single, clueless and interested. He spoke English, which was such an unexpected, pleasant surprise: like waking up after countless bleak mornings to the rich smell of coffee; he felt familiar, like we shared something in common in a land of strangers. Like we were destined to be.
He happened to be what his motherland considered to be “scum”. Although I didn’t know it then, he had a criminal record which was quite impressive: drug abuse, aggression towards armed authorities, theft, and assault. He had been sentenced for ten months in prisons – and when he was finally freed, an escape to Europe happened immediately. When I later found about all of this, I guessed he had succeeded to get this far because of a fake ID. Or several. What I saw in him at first was different: I saw a man who was strong, who knew what he wanted. I saw a man who didn’t like messing about. I saw a man with ambition, a man who took each day as it came. I think that was the impression he pulled off easily – an impression he WANTED to sponsor. I think he always knew his secret past would drag him down, because when we lay in bed with our limbs entangled that fateful morning several months after meeting and he leaned down close and whispered that he had something important to tell me, he knew it was his past that would be his own downfall. He knew it would be his past that would ruin the rest of his life. His past which would lose me.
But it was that morning which first conquered me. That morning with the iconic Eiffel Tower faded by mist in the distance, with the world painted silver and grey, with specks of autumn-dried brown leaves. Even with my thick tweed coat, it was the rich chocolate of his eyes which warmed me to the core. Warmed me more than the smoke wafting out of my half-parted lips like steam clouds. There was the whole package: intensity in the eyes, curiosity, butterflies in the stomach. I was a victim before him, depending on his very movement. He was the type of man that commanded attention. And he was bathing me in it – the indifference mixed with intense interest was what made my young heart beat a little faster.
When he asked me out for drinks, I savoured my pretend-hesitation, just for the satisfaction of keeping him on his toes. He didn’t seem like the type of man who was used to holding his breath, and I felt giddy at the idea that I could hold that type of power over him.
Finally, I agreed to it.
Life during the next few days was all focused on the date night. I would never have admitted to anyone that I was quite so taken by someone so early on, it was my own bittersweet secret of guilty teenage lust and love, but I guess that despite all the nerves, when the date night finally came it was a huge relief.
The bar was a friendly, cosy, crowded place. It had an Irish feel to it which was quite unusual for Paris. He had a beer in front of him, and me a cider – the strawberry flavoured type. My palms felt sweaty under the table, my whole body overly warm, my smile too taunt, my eyes too wide. My whole being too aware of him. Conversation flowed, my composure slowly steadying, and as the alcohol installed in my system, I wondered when it was he would kiss me and why he hadn’t just yet. All my defences lowered, my expectations high. We leaned closer and closer steadily throughout the night, my focus steadily flickering to the plumpness of his lips – such an unusual quality in men, one he could unexplainably pull off- and then up to his dark eyes again. He showed me his tattoos when I asked him to, after he mentioned having an extended collection. He pulled up his sleeves, showing me the thick swirling black lines etched on his muscular arms.
Later, when I felt happy and carefree and way too comfortable with him, he waited with me as I called for a taxi. We stood facing each other, me standing way too close to him then what I’d ever dare when stone-cold sober, and he had on this tiny secretive smile which was sneaky and so damn sexy. He towered over me but, as he leaned against a pole, bent his knees and hunched his back just enough for us to maintain eye contact. We talked comfortably, sharing trivial little facts about ourselves, until my taxi arrived. I moved to hug him, and when we finally drew back, he pressed a quick kiss to the side of my head.
When the taxi drove off with me inside, I was left to rearrange my jumbled emotions and the still-burning desire to kiss him.
The next day, I woke up to a good morning text from him.
Dates between us became more frequent. Something about this mysterious, thoughtful man made me cautious about telling my friends, although I was always on the verge of spilling out this sweet, guilty secret: huddling a guy who was too amazing to let go of. A man who was sex-on-legs but somehow too intimidating to make moves on. Whenever I saw him, I counted down the minutes for a kiss to finally come.
When it did, it was twice as good as I would ever have imagined.
He had walked me home. It wasn’t a nice part of town because the rent was mercifully cheap. He was nice about it, didn’t comment on the thugs prowling around, or the occasional sweet stench of weed, or the squalid yellow streetlights. The autumn night was chilly, but when he pushed me against a wall in a quiet alley and clasped his lips over mine, I suddenly didn’t feel cold any more.
First kisses were meant to be sweet and hesitant, right? But this was hot and urgent. And I loved it all the more.
There was no holding back, no beating around the bush. He pressed his body into mine dominantly, whilst his hands cradled my face softly. His lips were demanding, making me all the more demanding too. I felt some restraint I had – perhaps morals taught my parents and society- within me break loose. I just didn’t care and I loved the wildness of it all. When his hand pulled the corner of my shirt up, and his cold fingers caressed my stomach, I swear that the only thing that slowed down the heated moment was his pulling away and smiling softly down at me.
I thought I was addicted to him. Just one kiss made me feel so alive, burning my very core with sheer WANT. Just one kiss, and whenever I next saw him, my lips tingled in response. I wanted to be closer to him but felt unsure to, so when we sat next to one another in cute coffee shops, I was always looking up expectantly at him.
All kisses were hot and sudden and passion-filled. After that, when things began to normalize, he began to hold my hand under the table when I least expected him to, making shivers run up my spine and a warmness grow low in my belly. He would look deep into my eyes, as if he KNEW, and at the same time was completely mesmerized by him. I rarely gave him the satisfaction of seeing the affect he had on me, but when I let my guards down he would envelope me in this aura of tender protection.
It took longer for us to hold hands in public. One day, he waited for me outside the college campus and, when I left class, I found him waiting there, wearing a worn-out leather jacket and holding a grocery bag with an improvised picnic. That was the first time my friends saw him or heard of him, and all were quite surprised and impressed. I guess that after that, we steadily moved towards a gradual relationship.
I never suspected him. I had many occasions to. How he would become quiet around some topics or would suddenly change the subject when he did. When we took to chilling around in his place – a spaceful but barely decorated apartment- and watching tv, I would be impressed about how unaffected he was by violence: we would watch news reports of murders, missing people cases, or terrorist attacks across the pacific, and he would just casually state an opinion which was so ruthless that it deserved respect. Me being the action geek I’ve grown up to me, would chip in with suggestions and when I casually stated how to knock out a man or how to take down one, he would look at me with some surprise before letting a slow, approving smirk appear on his face. Then he would kiss me, and we would play around for a while, tickling, kissing and teasing. I was never once afraid.
I wouldn’t exactly classify him as wealthy. His clothes had a worn, down-to-earth quality which was distant from the world of expensive colognes and gold Rolex watches and unrealistic tailored tuxedos. His apartment was rather simple, with not many personal belongings. But he progressively took to taking me out to luxurious, expensive places for dinner, where tables had candles and flowers and the glasses were made of crystal. He would take me for long walks by the Sienne river after dusk, when fairlylights lit the night, and once we ate chocolate crepes in front of the Eiffel Tower at one in the morning, just the two of us and the traffic whirring not too far away. He didn’t seem to realize how romantic the settings were, but somehow he never ruined the moments either. Whilst I was awed by the moment, he dismissed the gold-lit Eiffel for me instead.
It was around the second month together, that he began to open up to me. We were badically a solid item by then, with no question asked on whether we were actually in a relationship or not. I had taken to staying over at his place half the time anyway, there were little doubts. One evening, I was tired from college and whilst making vegetables for dinner, I sliced my finger with the kitchen knife. It hurt like hell and even if the cut wasn’t deep, it bled an awful not. My first reaction was to contemplate fainting, suddenly my blood was pouring over the cutting board. The red was basically gushing, at least I thought it was. Hearing my small scream of pain, he came rushing in. he took in the sight of blood without flinching. “Hold still,” He murmured, “you don’t need an amputation”. He wrapped my hand in a towel and pressed the cloth down on the wound. He made me drink water to calm me down. Then, with tears of pain and shock blurring my eyes, he showed me the scars he had. It was the first time I ever saw them on his body. Some were vicious, still visible after years. Others were faded, barely bumpy under my fingertips. Some were covered by tattoos. He took off his shirt. Some scars lined his ribs. One just over his left hip. One over his pectoral. One on his right shoulderblade. He didn’t tell me specifically how or why he got them, but he told me when and how old they were and what weapon it had been. Some wounds were invisible: bruises gotten with baseball bats, a stick, one with the gun-baton. He showed me more vicious scars: a bullet wound, and one caused by a broken glass bottle.
I didn’t ask. Not then. Some part of me guessed, though.
He was right: my finger didn’t get amputated, of course. It healed over a few weeks. He cooked every time since. A few nights after my failed attempt, I returned to his place after classes to find a new cook book on the kitchen counter, and a bag of groceries in the corner. He made dinner that night, and every other night. When he couldn’t, we ate takeaway in front of tv, cuddled together under a blanket.
As we grew closer, he got busier. There was a general nervousness about him. He would close the curtains at night. He always insisted on calling me a taxi to get home late at night, tactfully declining taking me back himself or letting me go back alone. He always paid for me, in a hush-hush manner whenever he pulled out his wallet. Whenever the phone rang, he would dash to get it, only to hesitate in picking up. Sometimes, he would go in another room to answer. Occasionally, he would make excuses for me not to hang out with ‘his friends’: mysterious figures I had only seen in the distance during a few occasions. All tall, buff, dangerous(ly attractive). None had seemed to either recognise me, or be happy with him cutting off quickly to join me. I was weary, not suspicious.
But I was always happy with him. Satisfied, content – you name it, I was smiling.
We were closer than ever. The night the bandage of my finger came off, I asked him how he got his scars. We were huddled on the sofa, watching CSI, a bottle of opened wine sitting on the coffee table and our dishes of Chinese finished. I was nestled against his chest, the blanket covering us as he intently followed the plot, his big hand huddling my considerably tiny one, cupping it with his long fingers as if tasting the absence of medical bands. He looked down at me, his sensual lips curving up into a smile. “Would you like me to go through one at a time?”. I nodded. He just let out a tiny sigh as he shrugged out of his t-shirt. He was muscular, he did boxing regularly. His muscles rippled like wind on water. He threw the discarded material on one corner and pulled me close, so that I was sitting on his lap. Then, guiding my hands over his chest, he let my fingers touch each scar as he narrated the story behind them.
(“I did some bad shit when I was younger, Val. I wasn’t in a good place in life, I didn’t like rules. I hanged out with the wrong crowd. This one was one of my first, it’s a cigarette burn. Nothing much to say, it was a house party, drugs and alcohol were involved. Some older kids tried giving me crap and were upset when I didn’t stand for it. They tackled me down and one of them put out his cigarette on my arm. This one happened when I was twentyone. I had a small commission, but the person I was supposed to visit was expecting me: as soon as I opened the door, the man was on me faster than you can say Kentucky.” A rueful smile. “My friend was behind me and stopped the knife from going deep and puncturing my spine. It wasn’t deep, but the mental wound took a while to close up. This one? It’s nasty, huh? Let’s say I had a bit of a disagreement with the police”) and the
The more he went on, the more I grew tender towards him. His life, it had been such a mess. I wanted to protect him, because he had never been anything but good to me. I pressed my fingers softly to each scar, the occasional grazing of my nails against his skin making his breath catch and voice waver, resulting in me gaining confidence. He went on and when he was done, he let go of my hand. I didn’t remove my hands, but let them wonder over his chest, retracing the scars until finally I had no more scars to touch but smooth skin and hard muscle and inked tattoos. He watched me soundlessly, his chest rising and falling and he examined my expression.
When I kneeled up and cradled his face, his eyes were already unfocused and his lips parted open hazily. I guided the kiss: strong and slow, to hot and teasing. Feather-light touches of lips against lips were alternated between red-hot kisses. I pulled him down, sliding on top of him in a sign of dominance whilst he complied. I thought of every scar, of every cookbook, of every chickflick, of every romantic dinner this guy had put up with and my desire was fuelled with love. When he eased me out of my clothes and left me in my underwear, it was almost a relief. The sensation of our stomachs touching, his chest rising to meet mine with every breath, and the arch of my own back were unique sensations.
He took time exploring me, with a delicious equilibrium between impatience and the desire to savour the moment. His directness was a turn on. His hands, calloused and rough, but delicate and considerate, made sighs of pleasure escape from my lips every so often. When his hips jerked up and the hot hardness lodged against my pelvis, I knew for certain I didn’t want to move away or stop this. His hands were hot on my skin.
We made love that long night. It was my first time, but it didn’t hurt. My arousal overwhelmed any discomfort, perhaps. Or it was his skill, distracting me in the most delicious of ways. We somehow ended up on his bed, I think he carried me but I must have been too far gone in the moment to realize until we were there, on his mattress, his body covering mine, the hotness our bodies emanating making my thoughts surrender to the mounting pleasure. I just know that the ecstasy kept coming and coming, even the moments of rest somehow unhindering the relief of just BEING with him. It was only when we were completely spent, too tired to even lift our arms, tat he held me close and kissed me softly for ages. We talked in the afterglow, suddenly intimate and closer than we’d ever been, our hearts touching, our breaths matching.
It was that night that changed everything. A shift happened there and then. When we eventually woke up the next day, the world outside was a stranger to us. We needed nothing: we were in our own paradisiac oasis – a refugee for both of us. He cooked whilst I busied myself with blocking every attempt he made of being productive. Finally having lost my inexperience, I felt adventurous – and he was unable to resist me… and I him.
I always knew he was a criminal. What I never expected was to fall in love with him.
I met him in Paris. It sounds so cliché, but I loved the thrill of it. Loved the weak excuse he used when he walked up to me in the park in front of the Eiffel Tower (“’scuse me, do you happen to have a spare cigarette?”) and the intensity burning in those brown eyes. I was just a college student then, thinking that my whole existence was a verging of miracles and Fate, as my scholarship had been accepted to study in the capital of France. I was single, clueless and interested. He spoke English, which was such an unexpected, pleasant surprise: like waking up after countless bleak mornings to the rich smell of coffee; he felt familiar, like we shared something in common in a land of strangers. Like we were destined to be.
He happened to be what his motherland considered to be “scum”. Although I didn’t know it then, he had a criminal record which was quite impressive: drug abuse, aggression towards armed authorities, theft, and assault. He had been sentenced for ten months in prisons – and when he was finally freed, an escape to Europe happened immediately. When I later found about all of this, I guessed he had succeeded to get this far because of a fake ID. Or several. What I saw in him at first was different: I saw a man who was strong, who knew what he wanted. I saw a man who didn’t like messing about. I saw a man with ambition, a man who took each day as it came. I think that was the impression he pulled off easily – an impression he WANTED to sponsor. I think he always knew his secret past would drag him down, because when we lay in bed with our limbs entangled that fateful morning several months after meeting and he leaned down close and whispered that he had something important to tell me, he knew it was his past that would be his own downfall. He knew it would be his past that would ruin the rest of his life. His past which would lose me.
But it was that morning which first conquered me. That morning with the iconic Eiffel Tower faded by mist in the distance, with the world painted silver and grey, with specks of autumn-dried brown leaves. Even with my thick tweed coat, it was the rich chocolate of his eyes which warmed me to the core. Warmed me more than the smoke wafting out of my half-parted lips like steam clouds. There was the whole package: intensity in the eyes, curiosity, butterflies in the stomach. I was a victim before him, depending on his very movement. He was the type of man that commanded attention. And he was bathing me in it – the indifference mixed with intense interest was what made my young heart beat a little faster.
When he asked me out for drinks, I savoured my pretend-hesitation, just for the satisfaction of keeping him on his toes. He didn’t seem like the type of man who was used to holding his breath, and I felt giddy at the idea that I could hold that type of power over him.
Finally, I agreed to it.
Life during the next few days was all focused on the date night. I would never have admitted to anyone that I was quite so taken by someone so early on, it was my own bittersweet secret of guilty teenage lust and love, but I guess that despite all the nerves, when the date night finally came it was a huge relief.
The bar was a friendly, cosy, crowded place. It had an Irish feel to it which was quite unusual for Paris. He had a beer in front of him, and me a cider – the strawberry flavoured type. My palms felt sweaty under the table, my whole body overly warm, my smile too taunt, my eyes too wide. My whole being too aware of him. Conversation flowed, my composure slowly steadying, and as the alcohol installed in my system, I wondered when it was he would kiss me and why he hadn’t just yet. All my defences lowered, my expectations high. We leaned closer and closer steadily throughout the night, my focus steadily flickering to the plumpness of his lips – such an unusual quality in men, one he could unexplainably pull off- and then up to his dark eyes again. He showed me his tattoos when I asked him to, after he mentioned having an extended collection. He pulled up his sleeves, showing me the thick swirling black lines etched on his muscular arms.
Later, when I felt happy and carefree and way too comfortable with him, he waited with me as I called for a taxi. We stood facing each other, me standing way too close to him then what I’d ever dare when stone-cold sober, and he had on this tiny secretive smile which was sneaky and so damn sexy. He towered over me but, as he leaned against a pole, bent his knees and hunched his back just enough for us to maintain eye contact. We talked comfortably, sharing trivial little facts about ourselves, until my taxi arrived. I moved to hug him, and when we finally drew back, he pressed a quick kiss to the side of my head.
When the taxi drove off with me inside, I was left to rearrange my jumbled emotions and the still-burning desire to kiss him.
The next day, I woke up to a good morning text from him.
Dates between us became more frequent. Something about this mysterious, thoughtful man made me cautious about telling my friends, although I was always on the verge of spilling out this sweet, guilty secret: huddling a guy who was too amazing to let go of. A man who was sex-on-legs but somehow too intimidating to make moves on. Whenever I saw him, I counted down the minutes for a kiss to finally come.
When it did, it was twice as good as I would ever have imagined.
He had walked me home. It wasn’t a nice part of town because the rent was mercifully cheap. He was nice about it, didn’t comment on the thugs prowling around, or the occasional sweet stench of weed, or the squalid yellow streetlights. The autumn night was chilly, but when he pushed me against a wall in a quiet alley and clasped his lips over mine, I suddenly didn’t feel cold any more.
First kisses were meant to be sweet and hesitant, right? But this was hot and urgent. And I loved it all the more.
There was no holding back, no beating around the bush. He pressed his body into mine dominantly, whilst his hands cradled my face softly. His lips were demanding, making me all the more demanding too. I felt some restraint I had – perhaps morals taught my parents and society- within me break loose. I just didn’t care and I loved the wildness of it all. When his hand pulled the corner of my shirt up, and his cold fingers caressed my stomach, I swear that the only thing that slowed down the heated moment was his pulling away and smiling softly down at me.
I thought I was addicted to him. Just one kiss made me feel so alive, burning my very core with sheer WANT. Just one kiss, and whenever I next saw him, my lips tingled in response. I wanted to be closer to him but felt unsure to, so when we sat next to one another in cute coffee shops, I was always looking up expectantly at him.
All kisses were hot and sudden and passion-filled. After that, when things began to normalize, he began to hold my hand under the table when I least expected him to, making shivers run up my spine and a warmness grow low in my belly. He would look deep into my eyes, as if he KNEW, and at the same time was completely mesmerized by him. I rarely gave him the satisfaction of seeing the affect he had on me, but when I let my guards down he would envelope me in this aura of tender protection.
It took longer for us to hold hands in public. One day, he waited for me outside the college campus and, when I left class, I found him waiting there, wearing a worn-out leather jacket and holding a grocery bag with an improvised picnic. That was the first time my friends saw him or heard of him, and all were quite surprised and impressed. I guess that after that, we steadily moved towards a gradual relationship.
I never suspected him. I had many occasions to. How he would become quiet around some topics or would suddenly change the subject when he did. When we took to chilling around in his place – a spaceful but barely decorated apartment- and watching tv, I would be impressed about how unaffected he was by violence: we would watch news reports of murders, missing people cases, or terrorist attacks across the pacific, and he would just casually state an opinion which was so ruthless that it deserved respect. Me being the action geek I’ve grown up to me, would chip in with suggestions and when I casually stated how to knock out a man or how to take down one, he would look at me with some surprise before letting a slow, approving smirk appear on his face. Then he would kiss me, and we would play around for a while, tickling, kissing and teasing. I was never once afraid.
I wouldn’t exactly classify him as wealthy. His clothes had a worn, down-to-earth quality which was distant from the world of expensive colognes and gold Rolex watches and unrealistic tailored tuxedos. His apartment was rather simple, with not many personal belongings. But he progressively took to taking me out to luxurious, expensive places for dinner, where tables had candles and flowers and the glasses were made of crystal. He would take me for long walks by the Sienne river after dusk, when fairlylights lit the night, and once we ate chocolate crepes in front of the Eiffel Tower at one in the morning, just the two of us and the traffic whirring not too far away. He didn’t seem to realize how romantic the settings were, but somehow he never ruined the moments either. Whilst I was awed by the moment, he dismissed the gold-lit Eiffel for me instead.
It was around the second month together, that he began to open up to me. We were badically a solid item by then, with no question asked on whether we were actually in a relationship or not. I had taken to staying over at his place half the time anyway, there were little doubts. One evening, I was tired from college and whilst making vegetables for dinner, I sliced my finger with the kitchen knife. It hurt like hell and even if the cut wasn’t deep, it bled an awful not. My first reaction was to contemplate fainting, suddenly my blood was pouring over the cutting board. The red was basically gushing, at least I thought it was. Hearing my small scream of pain, he came rushing in. he took in the sight of blood without flinching. “Hold still,” He murmured, “you don’t need an amputation”. He wrapped my hand in a towel and pressed the cloth down on the wound. He made me drink water to calm me down. Then, with tears of pain and shock blurring my eyes, he showed me the scars he had. It was the first time I ever saw them on his body. Some were vicious, still visible after years. Others were faded, barely bumpy under my fingertips. Some were covered by tattoos. He took off his shirt. Some scars lined his ribs. One just over his left hip. One over his pectoral. One on his right shoulderblade. He didn’t tell me specifically how or why he got them, but he told me when and how old they were and what weapon it had been. Some wounds were invisible: bruises gotten with baseball bats, a stick, one with the gun-baton. He showed me more vicious scars: a bullet wound, and one caused by a broken glass bottle.
I didn’t ask. Not then. Some part of me guessed, though.
He was right: my finger didn’t get amputated, of course. It healed over a few weeks. He cooked every time since. A few nights after my failed attempt, I returned to his place after classes to find a new cook book on the kitchen counter, and a bag of groceries in the corner. He made dinner that night, and every other night. When he couldn’t, we ate takeaway in front of tv, cuddled together under a blanket.
As we grew closer, he got busier. There was a general nervousness about him. He would close the curtains at night. He always insisted on calling me a taxi to get home late at night, tactfully declining taking me back himself or letting me go back alone. He always paid for me, in a hush-hush manner whenever he pulled out his wallet. Whenever the phone rang, he would dash to get it, only to hesitate in picking up. Sometimes, he would go in another room to answer. Occasionally, he would make excuses for me not to hang out with ‘his friends’: mysterious figures I had only seen in the distance during a few occasions. All tall, buff, dangerous(ly attractive). None had seemed to either recognise me, or be happy with him cutting off quickly to join me. I was weary, not suspicious.
But I was always happy with him. Satisfied, content – you name it, I was smiling.
We were closer than ever. The night the bandage of my finger came off, I asked him how he got his scars. We were huddled on the sofa, watching CSI, a bottle of opened wine sitting on the coffee table and our dishes of Chinese finished. I was nestled against his chest, the blanket covering us as he intently followed the plot, his big hand huddling my considerably tiny one, cupping it with his long fingers as if tasting the absence of medical bands. He looked down at me, his sensual lips curving up into a smile. “Would you like me to go through one at a time?”. I nodded. He just let out a tiny sigh as he shrugged out of his t-shirt. He was muscular, he did boxing regularly. His muscles rippled like wind on water. He threw the discarded material on one corner and pulled me close, so that I was sitting on his lap. Then, guiding my hands over his chest, he let my fingers touch each scar as he narrated the story behind them.
(“I did some bad shit when I was younger, Val. I wasn’t in a good place in life, I didn’t like rules. I hanged out with the wrong crowd. This one was one of my first, it’s a cigarette burn. Nothing much to say, it was a house party, drugs and alcohol were involved. Some older kids tried giving me crap and were upset when I didn’t stand for it. They tackled me down and one of them put out his cigarette on my arm. This one happened when I was twentyone. I had a small commission, but the person I was supposed to visit was expecting me: as soon as I opened the door, the man was on me faster than you can say Kentucky.” A rueful smile. “My friend was behind me and stopped the knife from going deep and puncturing my spine. It wasn’t deep, but the mental wound took a while to close up. This one? It’s nasty, huh? Let’s say I had a bit of a disagreement with the police”) and the
The more he went on, the more I grew tender towards him. His life, it had been such a mess. I wanted to protect him, because he had never been anything but good to me. I pressed my fingers softly to each scar, the occasional grazing of my nails against his skin making his breath catch and voice waver, resulting in me gaining confidence. He went on and when he was done, he let go of my hand. I didn’t remove my hands, but let them wonder over his chest, retracing the scars until finally I had no more scars to touch but smooth skin and hard muscle and inked tattoos. He watched me soundlessly, his chest rising and falling and he examined my expression.
When I kneeled up and cradled his face, his eyes were already unfocused and his lips parted open hazily. I guided the kiss: strong and slow, to hot and teasing. Feather-light touches of lips against lips were alternated between red-hot kisses. I pulled him down, sliding on top of him in a sign of dominance whilst he complied. I thought of every scar, of every cookbook, of every chickflick, of every romantic dinner this guy had put up with and my desire was fuelled with love. When he eased me out of my clothes and left me in my underwear, it was almost a relief. The sensation of our stomachs touching, his chest rising to meet mine with every breath, and the arch of my own back were unique sensations.
He took time exploring me, with a delicious equilibrium between impatience and the desire to savour the moment. His directness was a turn on. His hands, calloused and rough, but delicate and considerate, made sighs of pleasure escape from my lips every so often. When his hips jerked up and the hot hardness lodged against my pelvis, I knew for certain I didn’t want to move away or stop this. His hands were hot on my skin.
We made love that long night. It was my first time, but it didn’t hurt. My arousal overwhelmed any discomfort, perhaps. Or it was his skill, distracting me in the most delicious of ways. We somehow ended up on his bed, I think he carried me but I must have been too far gone in the moment to realize until we were there, on his mattress, his body covering mine, the hotness our bodies emanating making my thoughts surrender to the mounting pleasure. I just know that the ecstasy kept coming and coming, even the moments of rest somehow unhindering the relief of just BEING with him. It was only when we were completely spent, too tired to even lift our arms, tat he held me close and kissed me softly for ages. We talked in the afterglow, suddenly intimate and closer than we’d ever been, our hearts touching, our breaths matching.
It was that night that changed everything. A shift happened there and then. When we eventually woke up the next day, the world outside was a stranger to us. We needed nothing: we were in our own paradisiac oasis – a refugee for both of us. He cooked whilst I busied myself with blocking every attempt he made of being productive. Finally having lost my inexperience, I felt adventurous – and he was unable to resist me… and I him.
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