His arms come around me so hard I worry they’ll crush my ribs into dust. My words disappear on a gust of air as he lifts me clean off my feet, but I don’t care because I no longer need words. Vowels and consonants and silly little syllables lose all meaning because his lips, curved in an undeniable grin, land on mine. He kisses me and I taste joy and heat and passion all blended into one on the tip of my tongue.
This is what love tastes like. Looks like. Feels like.
Love is the color of his bold blue eyes. Love is the sound of his heartbeat. Love is the taste of his mouth on mine. Love is a corporeal thing, something birthed into existence between two people whose passions combine. Love is tangible, implacable, irrepressible. It’s him and me, light and dark, sunshine and shadow, choosing each other no matter the cost. Choosing to fight, regardless of the outcome.
His lips devour mine like a tornado, bowling me over. I surrender to the storm, clinging to his shoulders and allowing him to wreck me with each brush of his mouth. If not for his arms around me, I’d fall to the ground, unable to keep myself upright. We’re both shaking with the intensity of our desire when he finally pulls back to let me breathe. The need is almost unstoppable. We’ve waited too long to taste each other again, let too many hours pass without the stroke of each other’s hands.
We are fire and gasoline, ready to combust at the single strike of a match.
I know there are things we need to discuss. Important, vital, immeasurable things. And yet, I can’t seem to think of a single one of them as he looks into my eyes with such longing, my heart nearly shatters at the sight of it.
I need you, I need you, I need you.
In my arms, in my bed.
Under my skin, under my sheets.
He sets me down on shaking feet and twines his hand with mine. And we run — through the sliding doors, past the clustered party guests still celebrating some holiday I cannot even recall the name of, straight by Harper and Masters, who stare at us with stunned smiles on their faces, and out the front door. We don’t stop or speak as we race for his car, the night air sliding against my heated skin like a caress. The whole world has narrowed to a single feeling — his hand, wrapped around mine.
We zip out of the driveway. His house isn’t far; a ten-minute drive through the winding bends of the Hills.
We make it in five.
The engine is barely off when he rounds the hood and yanks me bodily from my seat. I see the savage look in his eyes as he rips the satin mask from his face and tosses it to the ground. I recognize the raw carnality brewing inside him a second before his mouth lands on mine. My heart pounds at twice its normal speed as his hands fist in the silk of my dress and he hauls me up against his chest, then pins me against the side of the car without hesitation, his hips pressing into mine until I feel how hard he is beneath the fabric of his pants.
I gasp into his mouth; he swallows the sound with a kiss. As his lips ravage mine I realize, quite abruptly, that beneath all that steadfast patience and meticulous control he shows the world, there lies a beast of a man. The last time we were together, muted by alcohol and uncertainty, I only caught a glimpse of it.
No glimpse could prepare me for the full extent of his passion. For the wreckage he is about to inflict. A raider, a warrior, an invader. Burning me to the ground. Taking no prisoners.
His hands move down my thighs to find the hem of my dress, dragging it up to my waist in a fervent tug, and then his fingers are there, at the very core of me, his palm grinding slowly against my underwear, creating friction with the thin lace until I am no more than putty in his hands. I’m already teetering on the edge; a few careful strokes of his fingers and I know I’ll slip over the side of the cliff, free-falling into a chasm of lust.
For a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to make love to me right there, against his car. Throw me down on his driveway and fuck me in the dirt, in full view of anyone out for a midnight stroll, with a ceiling of stars and a bed made of gravel. And the craziest thing is, I’d let him. I’m so far gone, in this instant, he could do anything he wanted to me and I wouldn’t utter a word of objection.
I’m on the brink, about to explode, when his hands shift away. A helpless sound of protest slips out as his palms slide under my thighs and hoist me up into the air. My legs wrap automatically around his waist as he carries me up the front steps, across the threshold, and straight up the massive staircase to the second floor. He kisses me the whole way to his bedroom, as if he cannot get enough, as if the thought of tearing his lips from mine even for a moment is not an option.
He throws me on the bed, almost violent in his need, and I’ve barely landed when my dress disappears up over my head, tossed across the room somewhere out of sight. My trembling hands aren’t fast enough for him as they attempt to undo his buttons, so he takes over.
Patience has officially expired.
Waiting has unequivocally ended.
I see an apology in his eyes — he cannot be tender. There will be time for that later. For the slow, passionate exploration of each other, over lazy Sunday mornings and sunny weekday afternoons. But tonight is for lust. Need. Desire.
Total, complete, unfathomable wreckage.
Our eyes never look away as he pushes into me with a single, savage thrust. He moves like a man possessed, eyes burning with fire, and I bow beneath him like a reed caught up in a river’s current, bent to his will. I am drowning in his eyes, reveling in the intimacy I see in their depths instead of running from it.
This is the undeniable consummation of a far-flung hope, the declaration of a long-suppressed wish never voiced. This is two people celebrating something that almost slipped away from them.
We find release in the same moment, clutching so tightly I’m sure we’ll both be bruised. I don’t care. He could break me in two and burrow inside my skin — it still wouldn’t be enough. I’ve barely come down from my spiral into bliss, but the need is still there, clawing at me.
Insatiable.
The hunger in his eyes tells me I’m not alone.
We don’t speak for hours. Not verbally. But our hands whisper a thousand secrets, our mouths trace a million stories as we toss beneath bedsheets, learning each other like a melody you already know by heart, but eventually buy sheet-music for so you can read the actual notes.
Dawn is creeping through his windows, staining the world pink on the first day of this new year, by the time we are finally spent. I lie there, tangled around him as he runs his fingers through my hair with the last bit of energy that hasn’t been sapped from his system, and think it’s rather perfect that so far, he is the only person I’ve spent time with this year. It is a clean slate, upon which nothing is written except our burning, unblemished love story. And if day one is any indication of the remaining three hundred sixty-four, I walk into this future with hope and happiness in my heart.