Collide✔️

f o u r t e e n

The song is literally *chefs kiss*

———

I sit up with sickening anticipation. Kian did not return the night following his last visit, but I tried not let it deflate me. Tonight, I hadn't wanted to handle that same burning, childish optimism, but my feelings are apparently not mine to control. Since sleep alludes me, I fall to the method of distraction: reading.

He had offered me three books, none of which I have heard of, yet he claims to be rather monumental. I make it my next mission to inspect our library, to try and uncover these feats of literature which have been hidden from me, from us. For now though, I will read what he has gifted me, a poor attempt to focus my mind amidst this plight.

Together, we read the first few pages before our attention fell short and ended up upon one another. It is the same book he fell asleep reading, so I follow on from where he stopped, letting the words graze me gently as they lift from the page.

'He is determined to perform the most gentle act, but he doesn't know exactly where to enter. He tries to find it. 'Plus haut,' she whispers. His arms are trembling. Suddenly he feels her flesh give way and then, deliciously, the muscles close about him. He tries not to press against anything, to go in straight. She is breathing quickly, and as he withdraws on the first stroke he can feel her jerking with pleasure.'

My breath hitches, affected by the ink on these pages, the scene it suggests. My eyes flick on, finding the next words despite my apprehension, only to have me gasp.

'Moans escape her.'

Appalled, I discard of the book, throwing it aimlessly towards the end of my bed as if just being within its vicinity will taint me. As if the pages will burn me, like the words will scar me. Perhaps it is transference – not the novel I am disgusted with, but my own reaction. The way my skin has flushed, and my breaths are shallow, and my mind harasses for more. A topic so often surreptitious between a man and a woman, one undiscussed until the time approaches. Here, written so brazenly, offering a wanton woman and a man to accommodate to her.

I swallow thickly, urging the words to stop plaguing my mind. Perhaps it is prudish of me. I know that sex is natural; I know what is involves and what comes from it. These days, it is a private matter. Promiscuity is frowned upon, especially among levels such as mine. Purity is a blessing that should be kept intact until one comes across someone they love.

I frown as I recall such a speech. My mother had told me that. How hypocritical of her. Preaching to her child that her virginity should only be gifted to the man she loves, yet it is soon to be rid of by a man for his money, for his success. My legs clench involuntarily. I don't want Eason to touch me that way; not in the way that book describes.

When my balcony door clicks open, I'm thankful. Simply for it pulling me from this painful reverie where I imagine what I am to endure in only ten weeks' time. Not only that, but now, I could certainly do with a distraction from the erotica I have just read.