I’m back at his doorstep. The very place I’ve sworn I’ll never return to. So many times.
I feel dirty, grubby even, as I ring the bell, and grubbier still when he answers the door, opening it only a few inches. His hands look rough, bloodied, smudged with engine oil. He’s wearing that same work worn t-shirt, and those same work tired jeans.
His feet are bare. His tawny hair thick, wavy and disheveled. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. He’s unconventionally handsome, built of solid bone, flesh and muscle, not sculpted with protein shakes and steroids, no, he’s no fake, he’s the real deal.
His arms are tattooed, they fascinate me, they’re organic, like ivy thriving on an old oak, they spiral up over his shoulders and down over the sides of his ribs, down over his waist, down onto his…
You clear your throat, “eh-hem” then continue, blanching:
He’s well hung. Just exactly enough for me, and with just that little bit more, he feels so good, when we’re right on the edge…
“Hey. You” he says, always “Hey. You” and then he gives me this grin, the one he knows I can’t resist.
A slow hollowing opens in the pit of my stomach. The better part of me tells me I should go, but I never do. I’m guilty, I’m doomed.
I know he can see right through me, my mind is as dirty as he is, he’s going to ruin me, I know he is, I know that’s why I’m here.
“Hi.” Is all I ever say.
He pulls the door open wider. “You look like you need a good, hard fuck.” His tone is brutal, not cold, just raw with honesty. He sees right through me and I actually feel the warmth of it.
Of course, anyone else might say: “come in, you look like you got caught in the rain,” or, “Poor you, you look cold, come on inside.”
But not him, never with him.
He knows I won’t answer him, not in a way that I can admit too. Instead he does what he always does; he shrugs, he reaches across the threshold, he grabs my wrist and pulls me inside.
He kicks the door closed and turns, pushing the air out of my lungs as my back shoves up against the bare exposed brick of this warehouse loft. It’s not his home, it’s just where he works. And he’s not angry, he’s just hungry. For me.
There’s a pause, the tiniest moment in which I could say “No” if I wanted, and then he’s on me. His hands tugging my Parka open.
Like a carnivore his one hand paws at my chest through my thin blouse while the other makes a wedge-shape indent into my tiny skirt, pushing me back harder against that rough wall. Lifting me, wanting me. I’m pinned.
And that’s all it seems to take to ensure I’m not going anywhere, or changing my mind.