“Do I make you happy?”
It’s asked casually, and your fingers don’t even pause as they slide gently across my back, the arm that lies beneath my neck doesn’t tense, and your eyes meet mine briefly, openly, before you bend to kiss my shoulder. Why do I still think this question is important? Because I know you, that’s why. Because I’ve spent months watching you, secret glances, hundreds of them, each one stealing a little more to add to the scraps I built up into someone I could – but you weren’t like that, you were so much more, so maybe I shouldn’t have bothered. Maybe I should have just done what I did in the end, at the beginning, just grabbed you, just kissed you, covered in blood, standing there in the night, exhausted and spent, your arms so tired from killing that they trembled when they held me, pulled me closer.
Never going to forget that night. Never. I thought you’d pull away, thought you’d laugh. God knows, that’s a reaction I’m used to. You just stared at me for the longest moment and then you kissed me hard enough to hurt, desperate, hungry mouth on mine while your hands were on my body, fingers digging in. First time I’d ever touched you properly, got close enough so that all I could see were your eyes, open, always open, never looking away, as if I’d vanish if you blinked. You don’t kiss like that now. You don’t have to. Never let you get starved for ... for anything. I’m here for you, all the time, any time. If you wanted me, I’d let you take me if a hundred eyes were watching, a hundred voices screaming no. I’d only hear you, calling out my name the way you do when you’re so close to coming and you need something to send you over. You don’t talk when you’re coming. You can’t. I take every gasp, every moan and make them mean what I want them to, but you never give me words to play with. Not then.
You save the words for before, low whispers in my ear as your hands take away any chance of me answering you because I’m gasping, arching up, squirming, begging with my body. If I did speak, what would I say? I can’t talk like that, I can’t. Teach me. Make me. I want to. I want to tell you how your skin feels under my hands, how I can’t see you without wanting to touch you, how I can’t touch you without wanting to kiss you, how I can’t kiss you without wanting to fuck you, be fucked, come with you, in you, on you, our bodies tangled and slippery, bitten and bruised.
It’s not often gentle. We try sometimes, we do, but it’s not in us to show mercy. Sometimes though, afterwards, it’s easy to kiss slowly, to hold without grabbing, to touch without tearing, to smooth back the hair my fist used to guide your head, to hold you still. You talk to me then, your voice drowsy, gossiping, chatting as if I’m a friend. I like that. Don’t know if I deserve it but I like it.
I like you. Used to just want you, letting it eat me away because I knew I couldn’t ever – used to hate you most of the time. Don’t hate you now. Couldn’t.
Do you make me happy? What –
“- kind of a question is that?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just wondered.”
And I can’t stop pretending anymore. Can’t keep anything from you. I trust you.
“You make me happy. I love you.”
I think you said it back but it’s lost in the kiss and it’s as hard and hungry as that first kiss, but this time you taste of salt, not blood and I can feel you smiling and your hands are gentle.
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