Whenever he puts his hands on my neck I know I'm in for a rousing good fuck.
It's not like all of our sex isn't rousing, or arousing, as it were. But this day he reached up, lay his hands on either side of my neck, untied the string of my bikini, and turned my head so that he could follow his fingers with his mouth.
His breath was hot as the air, and there was a sheen of sweat across his upper lip that left a trail from my throat to my nipple. He wouldn't let me lay down; he held me upright, against the wall, where I was trapped between his hot, red mouth and the cold, blue tile. I could see right away that he intended to follow through right there. I'd never before liked to go at it standing up, but when I slid my hand to that place just below his ribcage, where his bones left off for just plain muscle, I didn't care where I was. It could be silk sheets or scrubby grass. It didn't matter. I was floating anyway.
His lips were like some kind of burning butterfly and I swear they left red marks like insect stings on me but later I found just a plain sunburn; ordinary but for the lack of white triangles on my breasts. He started out kind and gentle but he didn't stay that way. His kisses turned to licks, and once he had a taste he started the biting. I even pushed at him once because it was getting to be too much, and the floating seemed to turn into dragging. He responded with better strength; not physical, but willful, and I sank back against the wall in acceptance of what was about to happen.
Pinioned there, I started to make love to the wall nearly as intensely as I was making love to him. One hand was flattened against the wall, one hand was clutching the small of his back. The tile was forgiving: it was willing to allow my pool-slicked back to slide down.
One word that settled any lingering dispute of who was in control. I stretched back up to my full height, and then up on tiptoes to accomodate his height and he rewarded my cooperation by gentling his teeth on my throat. I don't know when or how he actually got inside me. He just suddenly was.
He held us still except for our simultaneous inhales fighting for room between us; our lungs were pressed tight, separated only by sweat and skin.
Then he kissed my mouth and stole my breath.
I was paralyzed and suffocated. He kept me like that for what seemed an eternity until finally my passion overtook my lungs. My hips, the only part of me that he'd left remotely free, moved on him. It was a tiny motion, one you'd have to be as close as we were to feel.
It was all it took. He didn't stop to see if he was hurting me or to check what sort of scream I was making. He didn't stop for my nails raking his back or ripping themselves trying to pull the tile from the grout or even for my teeth sinking into his shoulder. He didn't stop until he knew for sure that it was pleasure that I expressed, and he allowed me just enough space to find euphoria.
That confinement was the final drug. It was a terrible tide that swept across me; a relentless hurricane of sweat and tears, again stealing my air and my screams. I went silent and shaking and hot and he moved enough to let me arch my back away from the wall and settle onto him fully. I came back to myself to find him staring at me, a smile playing on his lips.
The tile stayed as stoic and silent as that smile, but its coolness was no less kind. They held me, he and the tile, hot and cold, until my trembling stopped.