SEX & RELATIONSHIPSSEX AND THE SECRETS

Sex And The Secrets: The Last Time

We didn’t say it. We didn’t have to. We both knew what this was. The end of the road. The closing of the curtains. The sun setting on everything that we were, everything we weren’t and everything that two people like us could never be to one another.

This was the last time we would reside in the world we built together from the scraps of ourselves that we offered up. Three years, four months and seventeen days about to be packed up, stored away and eventually forgotten as if we’d never existed. Three years, four months and seventeen days of 2am phone calls, half assed ‘How are you’s to ease our way into the ‘Are you free tonight? I wanna see you’s, time killed with pleasantries, inappropriate humour, occasional oversharing and flicking through the television to shows that we’d only half-watch, followed by kisses dipped in alcohol, and eventually the reason that brought us together; sex to get high on that walked hand in hand with that god awful comedown –the emptiness that made you vow to yourself that you would never do this again because it wasn’t worth feeling this insignificant once it was all over.

We didn’t have to say goodbye, we just felt it.

My phone buzzes just before the screen lights up with his name, and Alicia Keys and Maxwell harmonise about the Fire We Make.

I wait for a few more seconds. “Hey.”

“I’m downstairs.”

That piece of information makes my heart jump and suddenly I’m nervous. I take a deep breath and readjust my floor length kimono gown, allowing just enough cleavage on display to pique his arousal and simultaneously maintain a little mystery.

I head down the hallway to commence our final goodbye.

*

Maybe it’s because I’ll never see him again after this, or perhaps it’s the half a bottle of Pinot Grigio I consumed while I got ready for him, but he is the personification of black coffee. His skin is warm, rich and glowing with melanin, emitting his heady aroma of shea butter and ginseng. He’s strong, built like a demi-god like from countless hours at the gym, and when he leans down and presses his full lips to mine, my body responds like he’s a shot of caffeine injected directly into my bloodstream, highlighting the reason we carried on for so long; my bittersweet addiction.

I go up onto my tiptoes and sigh into his mouth as I wrap my arms around his neck.

“Somebody missed me,” he teases, kicking the door shut behind him. Prior to this, the last time I’d seen him was about a month ago when we’d argued over the silver necklace I’d found down the side of his bed.

I wasn’t supposed to get jealous. That’s not what this was.

“I’ve been drinking.”

“I know. I can taste it. You still missed me though.”

I don’t respond.

I didn’t miss him.

Yes, I thought about him sometimes, and yes, there were times when I could have done with his company, but I didn’t miss him. I didn’t. People like us don’t miss each other. We have an understanding and missing each other isn’t part of it…

I take his hand and lead him to my bedroom, swishing my hips from side to side as I go. He lets go and holds my waist, grazing his front against my back as we move.

My bedroom smells of French vanilla from the scented candles that I’ve left burning. Their golden glow bounces off of the clear glass shapes that dangle and sparkle from the chandelier that hangs over my bed, throwing dancing rainbows dots everywhere like a bokeh effect. I’ve dressed my four poster bed with cream baroque sheets, tied back the chiffon bed curtains and arranged calla lilies in a vase on my vanity table.

He kisses the soft dip behind my earlobe, “All of this for me?”

“I figured we should go out in style,” I smile. If years from now nostalgia ever comes knocking about his time with me, I want him to remember this; us being as close to love as we could get. I want him to remember that although I never told him so, and that as insignificant as we were to each other in the grand scheme of things, that underneath it all I did care.

Unravelling myself from his arms I pour us both a glass of wine and turn on my speakers.

“Turn it off,” he says softly, watching me closely as I lean over my desk and try to find the perfect song in my iTunes.

I look over my shoulder at him, “You don’t like my music?”

“I like your music just fine, but,” his tone dips into something that makes my cheeks warm, “I’d rather listen to you.” He holds his hand out to me, “Come.”

I saunter over. He takes the wine glasses from me and sets them down on my bedside table while I stand there staring at him, wishing I could take another mouthful of liquid confidence to calm the butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

Three years, four months and seventeen days and he still gives me butterflies.

We never got to know each other well enough to be anything more than fragments of who we both are, pieced together with ideas and expectations to make up for everything in between. For us the mystery was never completely solved; that’s why I have butterflies. Our walls have allowed us to remain relatively new and exciting to each other.

But there is a part of him that I know like the back of my hand, the only level we’ve ever truly connected on. This too is the reason for my butterflies.

His hand sweeps up the back of my neck and he tangles his fingers in my curls, tilting my face up to his, and staring down at me with eyes the colour of sun-warmed honey, shaped like a sole and framed by long sooty lashes. That was how he got me in the first place; those pretty golden eyes that make him look like he’s filled with fire. They are breath-taking, and unfortunately, he knows it. From the moment he said ‘Hello’, his disarming eyes have been unfairly locked onto mine whenever he addresses me face to face, entrapping me, making me bend to his will.

“Tell me you missed me,” he says.

“No.”

His lips brush against mine, “I missed you.”

“Don’t.” I try to turn my head away to break his spell but he wraps my hair around his fist and holds me there. Dammit!

He slips his other hand between the gap in my kimono and makes contact with my bare skin. “I missed touching you,” he purrs, pleased to discover that I am naked underneath. He trails his index finger slowly down the centre of my torso, past my navel and in between my legs. He sucks in a breath at the same time that I gasp -my desire for him is evident. “Did you miss me touching you, baby?” he says, sliding his finger in and out of me with ease.

“Stop it.”

He smiles roguishly and kisses me, slow and dreamily, gradually deepening it, greedily swallowing my moans whilst his finger encourages more. It’s a true kiss; one that makes me sigh and wrap myself around him like I never want to let him go. A kiss so perfect that when he softly utters, “Tell me…” against my lips, I cave.

“Yes, I did,” I half scowl, “Are you happy now?

“Not yet.”

His inserts another finger and curves them inwards so that every thrust stimulates my g-spot. Each time he makes the fervid connection the butterflies in my stomach speed up creating this kinetic energy that shoots through me and makes my walls clench around him, until I’m melting like hot candle wax.

I whimper.

“Now I am,” he smiles.

He lifts me up and I wrap my legs around him as he walks us over to my bed and sits down. Soon the swell of my cleavage is graced with his mouth and I’m rocking against him. The thrill of him groaning, growing and hardening beneath me makes my skin flush with heat. White teeth sink into my flesh and I arch my back, whimpering for him again, quietly begging for more. He undoes the silk sash holding my kimono closed, with controlled urgency, taking his time unwrapping me. He knows how anxious the wait makes me, how the pressure builds at the soft apex of my thighs, how it aches and dissolves, how the warmth of my body plummets and sends a delicious shiver up my spine making goosebumps bloom before I flare up again.

My nipples harden, pressing through the thin cherry blossom silk like braille as his hands sweep across them so that he fully understands the effect he has on me. His mouth falls onto them, warm and wet through the fabric, the sensation of his tongue heightened by the barrier.

I rock harder, grinding against him and sighing sweetly as he tilts his pelvis so that I can feel more of him.

He hisses through his teeth then rolls me onto my back and climbs on top of me, pulling my leg up onto his hip then groans and massages my tongue with his as our kiss deepens.

I reach down and undo his belt; it clinks frantically as my fingers fumble at the brass button at the top of his jeans, followed by the sharp metallic buzzing sound of his zipper going down swiftly before my eager hands slip inside of his boxers. He is hot, pulsating and rigid to my touch, and I have no doubt that he aches for me the way that I ache for him. Satisfied, I lick my hand and suck my fingers gratuitously before curling them around the head of his length, twisting, pushing, pulling, and gradually building up speed, watching his irresistible face with fascination as his eyelids lull and his proud lips part.

He sits back on his heels and shifts closer, pressing his scrotum against the wet space between my thighs. I hitch my other leg on the other side of his hip to hold myself against him as I twirl my hips in slow motion and continue to pleasure him with my hand.

“Fuck” he groans and closes his eyes, his abundance of lashes casting long wispy shadows across his cheekbones. With this expression and in this light, he looks like a Romeo; his face is softer, more romantic.  I’ll miss looking at him. Out of all my lovers I’ve admired in the throes of love making, he is by far my favourite. “You’re so wet.” He presses harder against me and gently caresses my clit in small circles with his thumb.  My stomach tightens and it’s hard to focus on pleasing him the way I intended. He’s distracting me with this loveliness, arousing me to the point where a sticky sound joins our heavy breathing, with every fervent swirl of my hip. Now I’m throatily moaning his name, gasping, and purring in appreciation of the maddening sensation we are creating with our bodies. He bites his lip, “Shit -we need to stop. You’re gonna make me cum.”

I giggle feeling a tad smug at my ability to please him so much with so little effort.

My giggling is silenced when he reopens his eyes. They’re burning so intensely that his irises are look like molten pools of liquid gold, and at that moment I realise that I’m going to pay dearly for it.

“Move up.” His voice is sharp and low. I shuffle backwards, conscious of the way his heated eyes run down the length of my body until they reach my glistening sex. He pushes my legs apart then lies on his stomach. His eyes flick up to my wide ones and he smirks.

My butterflies commence World War Three.

“JESUS CHRIST! OH-OHMYGOD. OH MY…UGH.” I thump my fist against the mattress and squeeze my eyes shut. “Shit!” His mouth suckles at my clit while his tongue flicks it back and forth rapidly, and his fingers, oh his long, thick, expert fingers are buried deep inside of me, slamming against my back wall hard and fast like machine gun bullets, and for the life of me I can’t manage to breathe without crying out in ecstasy. It’s too much, too fast. The sucking, the finger fucking, the licking…and the licking…and the licking, and the_ Stop! Oh god…oh god!” I can feel it already; the sudden rush of uncomfortable heat, the trembling, the tightening, and the otherworldly sensation of my body detonating, bursting open and setting my frenzied butterflies free. I push at his head, on the brink of my one woman chaos, unable to bear it for much longer, “Pleaseeee!

He groans gluttonously and hooks his free arm under my thigh then presses his palm flat against my stomach and holds me still.

Time pauses for a millisecond, and in that small fraction of time nothing feels real…and then reality comes rushing back to me all at once, and it’s distorted and rose-coloured, and filled with bursts of blinding white lights behind my eyes like I’m having a thousand epiphanies at once. I fist the bedsheets arch my back and shiver until I’m all burnt out.

He’s wipes his mouth and smiles triumphantly.

I grab his shirt, yank him up to me and kiss him. I can taste myself on his tongue. “Take off your clothes right now,” I growl against his soft mouth, tugging at the suddenly offensive items, tempted to tear them off of him if it means I can fuck him faster.

He kicks off his jeans and I pull his top off and then-

“…………” My mouth is wide open but no sound is coming out.

He crashes into me, stretching and filling me to the hilt with his length, and I’m gasping, trying to reclaim the air that whooshed out of my lungs. He’s bites my neck and squeezes his eyes shut, growling colourful words under his breath, waiting for my tightness to adjust to his size. I sigh blissfully as it does, and kiss his face.

The ache subsides and I feel…complete, like whether I wanted to mean it or not, I did miss him. I missed this; the intimacy of being closer than close to another person.

I missed being connected.

For the countless time since I’d met him, I reconsidered our impending sunset, wondering if we could delay it a little longer, because after three years, four months and seventeen days, walking away from each other would feel like leaving home –a home with mismatched furniture, cracks in the foundation, and set in the wrong neighbourhood, but home nonetheless. But you’re not supposed to make homes out of people. That kind of attachment will fuck you up every time.

He’s kissing me slowly as he rolls his hips in time, pushing as deep as he can go then sliding out till only the head of his length is all that’s there, over, and over, and over again. The urgency and the butterflies are gone, all that’s left is us and the something that is as close to love as two people like us can get. I spread my legs wider, willing him deeper, wanting to feel the pleasure that intermingles with the kind of pain that brings fucking to that point where you have no choice but to lose yourself in each other.

He speeds up, delivering quick, sharp stabs of passion that make me cry out in staccato. I sink my nails into his broad back when he collides with the end of me, and explosions of intense feeling blossom through my nervous system.

It’s what I want, but if it’s the end, it’s not enough. I need more of him.

“Fuck me harder…harder…yes!” The bed frame hurtles against the wall with each powerful thrust, so hard that dents form in the plaster and it cracks and falls away. I don’t care. “Harder.”

His eyes flash with excitement and he pulls out then flips me onto my stomach. I press my chest to the mattress and poke my ass up into to the air. He leans over me and grabs me by my hair, pulling my head back and creating a deeper arch in my back. His lips graze my earlobe, “Is this what you want?” His dick throbs at my opening, running back and forth along my slit, the tip of it poking my clit then teasing my entrance.

I nod and purse my lips, “Mmm hmm.”

He rubs the head around my opening and his breathing becomes heavier, making his voice thick, “You sure?” I whine impatiently and push back onto him. His hand comes down hard across my ass cheeks and I yelp. “Keep still.” The internal ache returns but I stay still. He lets go of my hair and slips just the head inside of me, cursing some more. His hand slips under my stomach as he reaches around and applies firm patting motions to my clit. Keeping still is becoming a chore. “Say please.”

He pushes inside of me little by little, re-stretching me.

Drunk on the feeling, I groan throatily, “Please, baby.”

“God, you sound so sexy when you talk like that. Say it again.”

He pushes deeper.

“Please.”

He plants kisses up my spine as he finally eases all the way back into me. As he thrusts he pulls me back against him.

We fuck like this; hard and fast, ferociously rebounding off of each other as if the two of us tried hard enough we could become one. The sounds we make aren’t pretty anymore; they’ve turned raw and uninhibited, like a lion trying to tame his strong-willed lioness. My sex coats his member like syrup, squelching and dripping as he continues to stimulate my clit while he takes me closer to the edge. The building pressure is inescapable; no breaks in-between, no way to subtract or pull back from climax. I can’t think, I can’t breathe, but this insane insatiableness has us so far gone that we can’t stop.

I orgasm and its more powerful than the last. He doesn’t let up until I’m a puddle of trembling limbs, too weak to function. A cry of ecstasy rips from his throat and his skin flares against mine. He’s jerking, tensing, squeezing me, panting and sweating with his teeth bared.

We collapse against the mattress.

He kisses my shoulder.

It’s over.

It’s over.

He rolls off of me onto his back and pulls me to his side. I drape my arms across his chest, nuzzle my face against his shoulder and hold him. We enjoy our last afterglow, tracing patterns in each other’s skin and sharing the silence of the comedown. This is the only time he feels like he is mine and the only time when I will drop my walls and allow myself to belong to him. The only time when he isn’t thinking about the one who left him when he needed her the most, and when I’m not worrying about him being careless with my heart like all the rest.

“Are you sure?” He doesn’t specify what he means, but I know. Are you sure you never want to see me again?

When we’re like this we’re a little less broken. It’s no wonder we couldn’t stay away from each other –but it’s a shame that we have to. We have to. A high isn’t a permanent fix. God only knows how we’d ruin what was left of each other if we were more than this. It’s better that we get out now before it’s too late.

I tilt my head up to look at his face with my answer prepared, but then he looks back at me and I…I just…

“No.”

Written by award-winning romance author, Shakira ‘Scotty Unfamous’ Scott.

@ScottyUnfamous
For more from Scotty, visit theunfamousseries.com.

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1 Comment

  1. IceQueen
    November 12, 2015 at 10:38 pm — Reply

    Jeeze the emotion in this story captures exactly how I felt when I was in a similar situation. Amazing writing!

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