almost
His fingers, calloused and warm and laced through mine, are welcoming when they should not be. Inviting, almost, with the other pressing into the small of my back, his body so, so unbearably close -- and I know that I am wrong to think of it. There are more sensible things to think of at the moment, like if he can see the shifting curve of my lips in the dark, if my nails are raking too roughly against his skin, or if my voice is carrying over to the neighbors next door. If he's even noticed it at all, or if he's enjoying the muffled cries against his shoulder. But instead I am caught wondering, mid-act, why this stoic, reserved man has decided to place his hand in mine when it could be easily pressed anywhere but there, at anytime but now, for any reasons than the ones coming to mind at the moment. And then his thumb is tracing the edge of my lips, I'm realizing, in a manner I hadn't thought possible, and I'm thinking that his embrace is comforting and familiar and ardent in all the ways that I shouldn't.
He's kissing me, suddenly. His lips on mine for the briefest of seconds, then again and again as if he isn't sure if we'd actually kissed for the first time or if he had only imagined it. Poses the idea of me staying the night as an order rather than a question, takes my squirming, gasping body even deeper into his, asks me if I like making love to him rather than if I like fucking him. And it does feel like love, almost. I wish he hadn't asked that. My mind is running too much with all the possibilities of what we are and what we could be when I know that this act is wrong, when I know that I am wrong to even think something like this could ever come to light -- and when the world is finally white and indiscernible and trembling with something greater than just ecstasy beneath him, I'm struck dumb by the knowledge that I've finished for all the wrong reasons.
I end up staying the night. His fingers remain where they were, giving mine a gentle squeeze, and instinctively I bury my head into his chest, breathing. Deep, slow, rhythmic. It's a little easier to collect my thoughts in the aftermath. I allow the questions on my tongue to dissipate as quickly as they had surfaced; I quiet the pipe dreams of this relationship progressing any further to a silent halt; I pretend, nearly successfully, that my hands are warm for no other reason than his being in it.
He almost feels like home.