Gustav Levi is calm
for the first time. A ship that's been hurled by the storm into
harbour. He's where he wants to be. He is finally inside me, taking
full physical possession. Fucking me. He increases his pace,
thrusting once, twice more, his pleasure, my pleasure, this wonderful
new calmness and belonging, then as the storm crashes over us, over
the chalet, battering at the mountain, we come together.
He collapses across
me, his face in the pillow next to my shoulder, his body heavy,
crushing the air out of me, but I don't care. I am just relishing the
heavy thump of his heart against mine, the rushing of hot breath
against my shoulder, the slow relax of his limbs as our breathing,
and the storm, subside.
I run my lips over
his cheek, but he shakes his head and rolls away from me. Now the
crisp closure of his zipper sounds so bitter and final. Shutting me
out again. Not only that, but now that his warmth is removed I start
to shiver, outside as well as within. The storm has given way to hail
now, white stones crashing onto the skylights like someone chucking
gravel to attract attention.
There are all sorts
of things I should say now. Things he's never heard before. This is
my chance to find the right words to make him mine.
But what I actually
say is, 'My wrists are hurting.'
He kneels up
quickly and unties the silver chain, his face troubled again. He rubs
my arms as he releases them, running his finger round the inside of
the bracelet where it has been branding my skin. I can barely move my
arms. They are stiff and sore with all the tension, the straining to
escape, welcoming yet fighting the sexy struggle.
He remains hunched
above me, shaking his head. I let my hand fall onto his back where
his black shirt is sticking with sweat. Trace the shoulder blades,
the bumps of his spine. The inflation of his ribs as he tries to calm
his breath.
A residual,
satisfied moan escapes me.
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