Dreams of 18(65)

By the time he finishes, his hands are squeezing my waist so tightly, massaging the flesh almost that I have to go up on my tiptoes. But it’s okay. I don’t mind.

I’ve got him to lean on.

My arms have wrapped themselves around his neck and I’m leaning into him.

I’m leaning into him the way I was on my eighteenth birthday. The way I’m beginning to think that I was always meant to do. “Y-you will?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

I take a moment to process this. To process the sheer enormity of what just happened.

He not only absolved me of all the crimes I thought I committed against him, he single-handedly destroyed all the voices that belonged to those people.

The voices that called me names.

And the truth is that I believed them. I’ve always been so ashamed of my desires for him that I believed that I deserved to be called a slut for kissing him, for wanting him, for crushing on him.

I didn’t think I’d feel any freer than I did a minute ago, but this is barely keeping my feet on the ground.

Now it’s his turn.

“But then, if you do those things, you’ll end up in jail,” I whisper, my nipples going really, really hard against his chest as I give him more of my weight.

A second later, he makes me give him all of it.

He brings me forward, tugging on my waist, and crashing our torsos together. It’s all very sudden and violent and glorious and I gasp as my soft, melting body clings to the hard planes of his.

“You think I’m afraid of that? I’m afraid of going to jail for you?” he rasps.

I lick my dry lips and shake my head rapidly.

I shake it like my heart is shaking inside my chest. With thrills and excitement and a dark sort of pleasure. “No, I don’t think so.”

“No, I’m not. For some very strange reason, I’m not. Not for you,” he says like he doesn’t understand it. But then, his tone becomes firm as he promises, “Anyone who hurts you goes through me, you got that?”

“Why?” I ask, melting and melting, drop by drop. The only reason I’m standing on my two feet is because he has a grip on me.

At my question, he brings one hand up and cups my cheek and I think that even his grip on my waist won’t save me now.

I can’t be saved from melting away because he’s holding my cheek with his rough, callused fingers and it’s so tender and scrape-y that I could almost be his rose.

“Because you’re my Jailbait.” He presses the pads of his fingers on the apple of my cheek as he continues, “And I’ll destroy anyone who dares to hurt you. All the people who made you feel less and called you names for that kiss. Everyone. You’re not a slut, all right? I won’t let you think you are.”

I grab his wrist and whisper, my heart so full of him and his words and his dark promises, “Okay, I won’t think that. But only if you don’t think you are what they say you are.”

Going still, he watches me a beat. “Is that right?”

Swallowing, I nod. “Yeah. I don’t want us to be ashamed anymore. I don’t want all the guilt and anger and pain. I don’t want us to be what they said we were. I don’t want other people defining us. I just want us to be… us. Just you and me.”

“You and me, huh.”

I nod before whispering, “Besides, I don’t wanna be their slut, anyway.”

“What?”

I close the last inch.

Our bodies were already touching. My breasts were already at his ribs and my stomach was already pressing against his pelvis and now, I get up on his feet to reach his mouth.

“I’m tired of being their slut, Graham. I wanna be yours.”

A current goes through his body that transfers from his flesh to mine, and I feel it right in my gut. In my pussy.

His eyes go blazing as his fingers jerk on my face and I know it’s going to happen before it does.

I know he’s going to kiss me now.

And he does.

He puts his mouth on mine.





His mouth is on me.

His mouth. Is. On me.

His mouth is on my mouth.

People call this a kiss.

I have to tell these things to myself. I have to run them in a loop inside my head because I can’t believe it.

I can’t believe it’s finally happening.

I can’t believe he’s finally kissing me. And it’s not like the kiss that I gave him on my eighteenth birthday, when he was an unwilling participant. When he was a big mountain that wouldn’t be moved.

He’s big still but he’s moving.

God, is he moving.

In fact, he has this intensity rolling just under his skin, this heat, this passion, that I can feel in his touch.

His touch.

He’s touching me. I could just smile about that till the end of my days. The fact that I thought he didn’t wanna touch me, and now he can’t stop.

His hands are all over my body.

They grab my waist and squeeze, making me arch up against him, making me rub my hard nipples against the lines of his pecs. Making me drag my trembling, shaking stomach against the grooves of his abdomen.

And when I feel the hair on his chest rub against my cleavage, I go crazy. I grab him back. I dig my fingers in his long, untamed hair and push back against him.