Trying To Heal

Chapter Thirty-Three

April

I suspired at his unfeigned, voluminous, heart-throbbing, and clit-wrecking groan that caught fire at this longing collision. Our divulgences defined and confirmed this perplexing entity — love.

That is what this is.

Love.

It is a healthy sickness. A bright smoke. An abominable joy. This indescribable delusion has been testing humankind for centuries. It has existed before cosmology, and in fact, is the agency of the generation and for the generations to come. It knows us more than we know ourselves, as it has been suppressed by subconscious schemas and subconscious habits. It knows who is right for us, and who is not. It is testing us in strategies we will never understand, except for the realisation of divine timing. It is ferocious and precarious and will be on the brink of wickedness if it does not achieve what it wants.

This is what it wanted. For years, for millennia, this touch is what it has been wailing and killing for. It is so phenomenal; the gods drop to their knees.

The first time we kissed, on the first of June, a humid summer day, I could not have the proper chance to savour his taste of cocktails and piquant rum. What I truly acquired was that that kiss bombarded me into a void — I was fighting off the stupefaction from the beginning of this story. A part of me was agitated, and here she is. Kindled. Incited. Uncertain of how to grant him more.

My body, on the other hand, speaks for me. My fingers coast into his jet-black hair, clenching the velvety locks. Delicately kissing him harder, my other hand clasps his black shirt tighter at the furore of his motioning to my lower back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He prises me into his skin like this illusive proximity is deficient to him, and it consequently tumbles him onto the bean bag. Plummeting on top of him, I try to comfortably position myself. He habitually bucks his hips upwards, causing our gasps and difficult, ragged, rebounding breathing to amend into a synced moan, followed by his hollow-cheeked "Fuck" under his breath at the mind-blowing friction.

His hands have been respectfully on my sides or some other place other than my exposed legs. I guide them there anyway, and then to my rear. His hotness smears the black dress into ashes. He roams up to grip my nape, slowing kiss and coarsening the trembling passion. Rough on new, night on light, the moon on the sun. I gift him my new on his roughness, shining the light for his night, and being the sun for his moon. The union, the alliance, of the everlasting yin and yang.

The sun smolders through the cloud and overshines the shadow in here. "You feel so right," he murmurs, "and so perfect in my arms."

My lungs melt to my feet, and his thumb under my jaw tips my head sideways. My mouth hangs open in bliss as his kisses explore the column of my throat, treating it with such great attention that he had to force my hips to stop rolling over his hardening cock. The coldness of his nose ring smearing my skin worsened the sensations.

"But if you keep doing that, it will kill me," he warns. "And you won't be in my arms anymore."

I look down at him. "Doing what?" With a vexatious smirk, I mildly grind against him, and innocently, "This?"

He grasps my hips harder, although he allowed me to rub him more. He is so hard; it is like touching a log. I observe how the material of his trousers is trying not to rip apart, how it draws out the shape of his girth. It does staggering things to me, that I had to exhale a soft moan.

His gaze darkened. "You are killing me even more so with those pretty little sounds." He sits upright, till our chests are pressed. "I wonder if I could make you louder, particularly on my cock."