I couldn’t let him touch me.

Every time he tried, I would instantly freeze up, my cheeks would flush, my heart would race so hard it ached and my ribs would feel bruised. I was scared, not of him, but of the way he could make me feel.

Nobody is supposed to make me feel again. Not after the last one.
I’m not supposed to try again, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

But here I am ... trying ... again.

I was scared that if I let him inside of me, not just my body, but my heart and soul, it would turn out like the rest. I was scared because he was different than the others, he wasn’t after my body alone, he was after all of me, every flaw and perfection, every fight, every moment that he and he alone brought out in me and nobody had ever accomplished what he had in just a short time.

Normally when he’d try to captivate me, he’d kiss me, he’d kiss me until our lips would part, our tongues would dance and just as it started to get too heavy and put a single toe over the line, I’d tense, freeze, and back away.

I hated being so scared.

But tonight? Tonight was different.

His beard had been coming in, his scruffy face just long enough to rub my lips slightly raw when we kissed, to burn me just enough that I’d feel that last kiss for hours with a smile on my own that would never seem to fade. I found my fingers brushing along it as he dipped his face towards mine, feeling the way it skimmed against my fingertips.

I smiled, he leaned in, and we kissed.

I haven’t been feeling well lately, he had been taking care of me, doting on me constantly and it was the only thing on his mind to do. He didn’t try to take advantage of my weakened state, to overpower me and dominate me - he was patient.

But I want this to escalate ... Something about this moment is different from the others.

His fingertips were brushing along my throat, pressing gently to the side to turn my head to let his lips travel against my cheeks, my jaw, throat ... There it was, that pure fear, that genuine gasp for air but he didn’t stop this time - I didn’t stop him. He pulled back, leaving the sensation of that rough stubble burning my skin as if he had used paint to mark a trail and he looked at me as if to ask if this was okay.

I didn’t stop him.
I won’t stop him.

His fingers massaged my arms, squeezing my flesh, adding pressure as he slid his touch all the way down to my fingers. It felt good, so good, a relaxation he seemed to feel I deserved being given, and my eyes closed and I trusted my body with his touch. I could feel how my heart beat escalated, how my breath was drug from my lungs with a weight attached of each gasp ... Still, he continued.

My eyelids were heavy, my body was tingling, skin burning alive and within seconds they closed and my whole experience escalated.

It’s amazing how something so subtle, so often overlooked and seen as just ordinary can be escalated once you can’t watch what the other is doing, or see what is happening, and with my eyes closed, lids refusing to open, I could hear and feel at a level I had never before in a moment like this. His breath was heavy, I could hear it so loud, almost as loud as my own, and I could feel it brushing along my skin as he leaned over me, looking over each inch of my body. These were pieces of myself I had spent so much of my life hating, so much of my time wasted on cursing it, pinching and bruising, self-harming; but he looked at it with renewed adoration, affection and love poured into me with each kiss that sunk into my skin like a warm beam of sunlight.

He was kind, moving as he began hiding under the warmth of the blanket that was pulled on top of me so I wouldn’t grow cold, but in time I could feel the cool air from the fan being brushed against my chest followed by a warm pant against my nipple. My hands clenched the sheets beside me, this was it, a big moment. He was seeing me, my breasts, the scars of surgery from my youth, the translucent shimmer of stretch marks ... He kissed the center of my sternum and I shivered.

Even his first move on such a sensitive place was not perverse and crude. It was loving.

His fingers softly massaged the tissue, feeling the warm, soft, pliable flesh I possessed before he kissed one tender nipple, erecting the bud with an ease my body had never given up before and I gasped. My breath was growing rapid, each beat of my heart matching a breath and my teeth indented the pillowy softness of my lower lip. He drug his lips between the valley of my breasts, jawline scratching against my skin as he neared the other nipple, teasing it with a gentle kiss, a lavish lapping of his tongue and a bite that made me yelp and tremble.

I have never trembled the way he made me tremble, ever.
Nobody ever has made me feel the way he has.
It is as if he is a sorcerer.

It was clear he enjoyed this form of torturous pleasure he was giving me, a gentle, yet dominant chuckle leaving the rumbling collum of his throat, that deep tone spilling over me, rolling against my senses and even that made my insides knot.

Everything he does makes me ache inside.

I felt so exposed in this moment, with his lips brushing against and between my breasts, catering to my flesh as if I were some kind of royalty he was being gifted the experience to touch, and he was soaking up each second he had.