*This is in no way connected to any of my other stories I've talked about on this blog, nor is it based on personal experience. This is entirely fictitious. Enjoy.
"Home Late From Work"
She sits up that early morning, knees bent to her chest and chin perched on top of them. The thin sheet is wrapped around her torso and her long black hair falls just below her chest. When the sun sprinkles in through the half-opened blinds, glorious patterns dance on her covered feet. The man beside her grumbles slightly at the invasion of light on his partially closed eyelids. Rolls over, a quick, “G’mornin,” and back to passing out, this is who she spends the days with when she can. Or, more honestly, when he finds time to spend with her.
It’s been three years. “Living together,” she had thought six months ago, “that’ll be what finally pulls us back together…and maybe even a dog.” But the dog never happened (too expensive in the end) and the apartment didn’t push them together, no matter how small it was. Amazing how two people can find miles in inches of space.
When he came home from work the night before, he smiled and said, “I love you,” before eating the dinner quickly she laid out for him. “You’re late,” she muttered, “you said you’d be home two hours ago.”
He sighed, “I know, sweetie, but work at the office kept me late. Please, dear God, just…don’t, okay?”
“I, I understand dear but you’ve been late a lot and I know you’re at work and everything but don’t you miss spending time together?”
He gave her that look last night, the look that says really-you-know-I-love-you-can-we-please-stop-this-it’s-been-a-long-day-I-can’t-handle-any-nagging-right-now. She knew she could be a bit much sometimes and that he was working hard to provide for them—he said he was saving up for something special and she could guess the something special would go on her finger—but she missed him, what it used to be. Late nights talking for hours, laughing at their own ridiculousness, longing looks signaling so much more, showers that lasted longer than they should have…
The man that rolled over next to her isn’t really there, she thought. Where he is she does not know and her search has left her empty handed. She reaches out to touch his back and he flinches before relaxing once her touch runs down his spine. The sheets around him have fallen below his waist and her heart beats in her throat at the sight of his body. She misses his waist pressed firmly against hers, his lips down her neck, his hands working magic on her breasts. This lingering wall between them, growing stronger by the day, kept their bodies from the other.
Every so often they would be pressed against the wall, pounding loudly with their fists, desperately trying to cross to the other side. The force was too much though; when they did cross, the effort to move to the other side of the bed was as much energy as was put into the night. Half-hearted sex felt like freshman year of college drunken night fucking. It was even worse when the word “love” was attached somehow. At least in college at those house parties, no one expected you to call the next morning. Few if any soul mates were met this way. Her other half is next to her right now, and she wants him. Yet does he want her out of love or to avoid having to come in his own hand?
He rolls again the other way towards her and gives her a half smile, whispers, “Come here,” and she then lets herself be pulled into his embrace. Her breathing is labored when his lips leave hers and travel downward. Licking, sucking, nibbling even, he used to make love to her with his mouth. Like this though, she can’t see his face buried between her legs and that’s what really gets her off now: seeing him. Seeing what she does to him, how his body falls into hers and they mold into one, seeing how he sighs and holds in those grunts with his clenched jaw.
When he climbs back up her body, he plunges in without any more warning and she winces; it’s been a while. He notices, pauses briefly to kiss her on the lips, and continues. His head is hidden in the pillow beneath her and she reaches for his face with her hands. Their noses, pressed together, are leaving them cross-eyed. He tugs himself free of her hold and looks at her body up and down. The eyes though, those gorgeous eyes of his look glassy and are staring at some random spot of the wall behind her head. His thrusts are their usual mundane pattern and she only feels the occasional swipe of his fingers through her hair.
“Fuck this,” she thinks, “fuck no, not like this again.”
She grabs his back and flattens her chest to his, digging her nails violently into his skin. Bucking her hips upward, she moans for the first time in a while. He rams harder against her, his nostrils flaring. She tries again and he pins her arms above her head and leaves her immobile. She struggles against his hold and although she likes the force, she wants to fight. Every movement is an attack.
Fuck me like you mean it.
Fuck me like it’s been months.
Fuck me because it has been months.
Fuck me harder than ever before.
Fuck me like you don’t give a damn who hears us.
Fuck me like the first time.
Fuck me like you need me more than anything.
Fuck me like you want to be inside me.
Fuck me like you love me.
Fucking love me!
He hops off of her and heads to the shower, “Fuck, I needed that.”
She needed it too, to let go that early morning, to feel agony and pleasure in one, to be needed. But as soon as he came, she was forgotten. So she pushes her knees back up to her chest, rubs the few tears away on the sheets around her legs, and sighs.