I’m trying not to fall.
It’s one of three things on my mind, and by far the least of them. It’s an afterthought, an annoyance, but I don’t dare forget it for a second. Her face (all gasps and fluttering eyelids), my fingers inside her, and pleaseGod don’t let me fall.
It’s a studio apartment but fourteen feet from her front door to her bed is about twelve feet too far. For a moment she’s a glorious whirl of limbs, letting her hoodie flow to the floor like water while she closes the door. My body is less graceful. I kiss her hard. I’m moving forward, bending her back. A step back brings her up against the wall. She stops. I keep pressing forward.
I’m six feet tall in these shoes, maybe more. She might be 5’2″, if she stood on a phone book. I’m standing straight, looking down at her looking up at me. She half-climbs the sheetrock to bring her face to mine, raising herself on tiptoe with the chair rail gripped in both hands. She starts to wrap herself around me, but I pin her leg against the wall with my knee. We’re balanced on one of my stilettos and the toe of one of her sneakers. It’s a miracle we’re still standing, let alone pushing, kissing, pawing like this.
My mouth is on her throat, all teeth and heat and moans. I’m bent over her like a vampire in a classic film, and just as pale in reflected streetlight. My hands are on her: holding her neck and jaw in place, grazing her thigh under her skirt. She arches her back, pushes off of the wall. I feel my ankle start to turn don’t let me fall, manage to push her back.
“Are you going to touch me or not?”
“Hell, darlin’, this ain’t touching?”
“I mean: are you going to use your fingers or…” she looks away.
“I don’t know. Are you going to ask nicely?”
“If I wanted nice you’re not the girl I’d have brought home.”
I can’t help grinning at that. I’m all leather and spikes from hair to heels. She has a point. I slide my hand up her leg. There’s a moment of surprise when I feel pubic hair–she’s the first (only) girl I’ve been with who wasn’t shaved–before I slide two fingers into her. I move my hand slowly, gently, watching her face. She’s biting her lip, eyes darting to mine and away again. I’m frustrating her on purpose, waiting for her to say something. I’m trying not to laugh don’t dare laugh if I laugh I will fall.
“You’re such a tease.” I love that she makes eye contact.
“This is teasing? What, you want me to fist you, right here?
“Ngh.” She shivers, clenches around my fingers. “If you’re offering.”
I laugh. She doesn’t. “Got lube in the top drawer.” She nods at a dresser a few feet to the left.
“You wouldn’t rather–” I gesture at the bed.
“No. Right here.”
I drag her closer to the dresser anyway. I don’t want to stop touching her while I rummage for the bottle, and I suspect I’ll want something solid in reach to keep my balance. I withdraw a moment to remove my ring and start lubricating. “You’ve done this before?” She nods. “Okay.”
I move slowly, carefully. She gasps, and I pause. “Too much?”
“No, don’t stop.” She’s moaning and writhing and it seems like she’s being supported more by my wrist and her tenuous grasp on the chair rail than the floor. I am grateful to have the dresser to catch myself on. The world collapses. Nothing else exists, only her face, my fingers inside her, and trying not to fall.
There’s a rhythm to this. Slowly, gently, easing into her. She starts talking, frantic and high, swinging from English to Spanish and back again. She’s somehow scrambled one foot on top of the chair rail. She’s on point, back arched like a ballerina. She shakes, gasps. Her muscles clench down hard and I don’t try to move. Then again. Me, slow and gentle. Her, frantic. And again. And again.
“Fuck, I don’t even know how many times I came already, it’s all blurring together.”
“Do you need me to stop?”
A laugh. A volley of Spanish (which I do not speak). Then “Don’t you dare.”
I smile. Somehow we don’t fall, somehow my hand fits inside her, somehow my mouth can reach down to her throat in this position. I’m murmuring in her ear when I can pull my mouth off of her skin. She whispers back between gasps and moans.
“My turn. You have to let me–ngh.” She’s back to Spanish for a sentence or two. “My turn.”
“Are you kidding? You can still form sentences in two languages; I am nowhere close to done with you.”