If I Write You a Story

When I think of sex, the kind of sex I want to write about, I think of moments. A situation or particular need. I don’t build lives in my head, I don’t give my characters names or families. I don’t craft a home life for them. They are wordy substitutes for the person I want at that moment. My sexual vignettes are almost always done with a very specific inspiration in mind.

I write them as an act of seduction.

—

Trembling. It started with your trembling, an uncontrolled shivering felt through the thick fabric of your coat when I gently gripped your shoulders and guided you inside.

The trembling stopped when my lips met yours. The sudden pressure of warm lips parting against your own was enough to startle you out of your nervousness. You tried to pull away.

My hands held you still. I pulled your lower lip between my teeth, biting lightly, and felt you relax into the kiss, lips parting more fully to share the slow taste of heat passing between us.

I drew the coat over your shoulders, letting it slip to your feet. Without pausing, my tongue quietly pressed along the edge of your lips, my hands slid under your shirt, cool hands on the warm skin of your back.

I could feel the hesitation, the vestiges of uncertainty in the lines of your body. My hands drifted lower, fingers pressed against your skin, fingers close enough to move between skin and jeans, between skin and panties. Fingertips rested on the top of your lower curves, rested on a place intimate and not quite safe.

I was enjoying this. Testing the lines of tension, knowing which way to touch you to leave you uncertain but hungry for more. Like a pendulum set in motion, your motives unclear even to yourself, I drew you forward an inch at a time, never quite leaving your desires at rest. A kiss, a bite, a light finger along your spine.

My hand found your wrist and drew you up the stairs and into my study.