The last time we ever met

I wore a skirt that night. Lavender and white, paired with a fitted, white button down shirt. I wanted to feel pretty, having been robbed of the evening I had originally planned and still yearned for. My cycle had begun. Not the most convenient time to have him roll back into town, but life can be cruel in its pursuit of humor.

At first, I kept my distance. Self preservation. As was always the case, one of us gravitated to the other. First him, then me, only I didn’t move away. Did I? His pull was so much greater than mine. No, I ended up on top, straddling him, as we wrestled. It’s all fun and games until a lady breaks her nail. Irritated, I went to playfully punch him, but his hand caught my wrist, and he flipped me over. No longer on top and now pinned to the bed, I struggled against the tight grips about my wrists, unable to break free. On his knees, between my legs, he hovered over me, thoroughly enjoying his control, whilst I half-heartedly flailed against him. The fight slowly left me, his lips found mine, the taste of him still new but familiar. Tight grips became hurried attempts to unbutton my blouse, melting into seductive caresses of my breasts, to tracing my body as if to commit it to memory. Down my side…hip…the leg now wrapped around him, he traced, as his tongue probed me. He slid his hand slowly up my leg again, then turned inward, hooking one finger under the edge of my panties. Stimulating every nerve on its way, he let his hooked finger slide along the edge, further down, stoking a flame of desire.

Surprised, I giggled, “Did you forget?”

”No,” he whispered, lust in his voice. “I just don’t care.”