Everything but the Fall, pt2

[MK****]

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She’s straddling me -- bare thighs d***d over mine, her breath already threading through my skin. The fire behind her flares, throwing shadows that dance along the planes of her body.
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That white shirt -- the one that hung like restraint -- is clinging now, translucent with sweat. I can see the full line of her, the curve of her back lit up like temptation in silhouette.
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Her fingers press into my chest ... Not to push, not to anchor -- just to feel. Like she’s trying to count something in me I haven’t measured yet.
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She leans in -- hair tickling my cheek, her scent catching in the space between us: heat, cardamom, and the memory of a dare.
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Her mouth finds mine, and something detonates.
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The kiss is all tongue and territory. She takes, unrelenting -- but I answer. I meet her pressure. Tip her head back. Take her mouth slower, deeper. And that -- that -- makes her shudder.
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It brings me back.
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To the market.
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She was thumbing figs like they’d offended her. Rolling them in her palm, testing for softness, for secrets. She never looked at me.
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But she shifted her weight.
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That small tilt -- like a door cracking open. I saw it. Felt the pull of it. I walked past. Kept my eyes ahead. Promised myself I wouldn’t turn.
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I did anyway.
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She was still there. Holding a peach now -- smirking. Not at me -- just ... smirking.
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Now, she’s kissing me again, and the rhythm is changing. I tilt her hips. Guide her back down over me, slow and deliberate. My hands on her -- not controlling, but steady -- suggesting.
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She responds in kind. Grinds down. Pressure coils. She reaches between us, finds me, guides me inside. I expect her to yield.
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She doesn’t.
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There’s resistance -- heat, tension. Not a wall -- a test. Like her body’s still asking: Are you sure you can hold this?
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It reminds me of the coffee shop.
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This time, I saw her first.
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She was outside, across from the bookstore. Sunglasses on, drink in hand, legs crossed like a well timed comma.
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I watched from the window. Sipped my coffee too fast, burned the roof of my mouth. She stirred her drink but never drank it.
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I got up.
Crossed the street.
Walked past.
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She didn’t flinch. But her fingers tapped once, slow, on the table. Like a metronome daring me to follow the beat.
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I ducked into the bookstore. Picked the first thing I touched. Didn’t read a word. When I came out, she was still there. Still not drinking. Still not looking.
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But when she re-crossed her legs -- slow, deliberate -- I felt it. That same movement she’s making now as she slides down on me.
That same control.
That same tease.
I grip her waist tighter -- not possessive. Just to say I’m here. And maybe I see you.
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She moves with me.
Into me.
Her rhythm shifting again.
Faster now ... not wild -- intentional. Like she’s dragging something up from deep inside us both.
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Then she shudders. Lets out a moan -- low, involuntary -- and it draws me back again.
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The third time, it rained.
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No umbrella, she walked past me on the sidewalk -- closer than before.
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We didn’t speak.
But she stopped.
So I stopped too.
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She looked up at the sky like it had kept a promise. Her hair was soaked. Her dress clung. She smiled, not at me, but at the moment.
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Some silences are louder than thunder.
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Now, her moan crescendos. She leans forward -- forehead to mine, breath ragged.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
Then again, deeper.
"Don’t fucking stop.”
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It’s not a plea; it’s a provocation -- so I don’t.
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I shift beneath her -- meet her thrust for thrust. My hands tighten. She bites her lip. I tilt her hips just enough to make her gasp.
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She throws her head back.
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And I see her again.
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At the gallery.
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Expressionist piece -- oil on canvas, nothing but blur, rage and red. She stood in front of it like it said something only she could hear.
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I moved closer.
Pretended to see what she saw.
She shifted to the right.
So did I.
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A rhythm before music.
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Now, in this room, the music is her's. Her body pulses around me -- tight, hungry, certain.
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I lean forward -- kiss her neck, her collarbone. My hands roam down her back. She arches -- groans. Hips grinding with more pressure, more purpose.
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She’s getting close. I feel it in the tremble of her thighs. The break in her breath. The way she clenches around me -- not to possess, but to know.
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She looks at me -- eyes wide, locked.
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And I know she sees me too.
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She shatters.
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And I fall with her.
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We stay there -- pressed together. Her hand on my chest. Her breath soft and steady now. Her shirt hangs lower off one shoulder, barely clinging.
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And I remember --
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It started with glances.
Just that.
Just eyes, and the question that lives in a maybe.
Not promises.
Not permanence.
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Just everything, but the fall.

[pe****]

The next time a guy asks me what I like, I will use this as a starting point.

[Tara131]

Wow! This!!!

[al****]

That was hot 🔥

[MK****]

Thank you ... there is a part three but I think there may be a part 4 too. I will see ...

[Sa****]

You should do a book with short stories... This is captivating writing.

[Sa****]

You should do a book with short stories... This is captivating writing.

[MK****]

17 minutes ago, SassyCas said:

You should do a book with short stories... This is captivating writing.

I appreciate that. Thank you

[Tara131]

It’s true! You should write a book of short stories. You’re writing just draws you in and brings you to the space you ***t with your words! SO GOOD!

[Ta****]

Truely captivating.

[ve****]

Wow!!!!! This is amazing!!!! U could write a book. So descriptive, real, and sexy.

[MK****]

6 minutes ago, verynew_subgal said:

Wow!!!!! This is amazing!!!! U could write a book. So descriptive, real, and sexy.

Thank you. Wait till part 3 ... if it gets published.