All Too Well - Erik Menendez

No Means No?

Beverly Hills. CA. 1988.

Eriks POV:

"So, I'll pick you up at 7 tomorrow?" We're now in the foyer after me asking multiple times for the confirmation to my question. Both my hands comfortably embracing hers. Her smile is displayed so wide that it becomes contagious.

Her response is a whisper. "You better". She's focused on my lips. Too focused on my lips. Her stare lingers on them and if it wasn't for the fact she had to look up to me, she'd see my eyes focusing on hers.

I hold onto her hands tighter before pulling her towards me, her body stands against mine. We're bricks stacked against each other. Her legs rest against mine, her stomach curves into mine, her chest rubs against me. I maneuver both my arms around her waist, ignoring the temptation to stroke her face; my hands subtlety shaking stops me from doing so. She will feel how nervous I am, I don't want that. I want to be the man she wants me to be. Under any circumstances.

Her hands meet my torso. However they aren't stationary, they're lightly rubbing my abdominal muscles. I normally would expect myself to dissociate from this, but I don't. I'm here, in this moment, feeling this moment.

I let myself close my eyes, savoring the slight friction of our bodies and the mild hunger of her hands. "I look forward to our date". It's spoken into my ear, it's said with mischief, with gentleness, with something I've not heard before.

Before I get to open my eyes, her lips are pushed on mine. She's kissing me. We're kissing. Again. Oh my god, again.

Ignoring my shaking hand, I can't help but press it to rest against her face. She mirrors this movement, but her hand doesn't stay on my face. It goes back into my hair. My face is angled completely down, undoubtedly she's standing on her toes; desperate to close the height gap between us. She tugs my hair, harshly. It doesn't scare me, it ignites me instead. My mouth subsequently parts mid-kiss and that's when she introduces her tongue in my mouth. In. My. Mouth.

She's ravaging me and I'm letting her. I'm letting her and I like it. Fuck, I love it.

The physical reaction my body immediately goes through in undefinable. Every hair on my body is on it's edge, my stomach drops - not in the typical anxiety induced way it normally does - no, it drops with endless butterflies flapping around inside of me. My body becomes hot, my cheeks are likely flushed and my mind becomes a pile of mush. My tennis shorts inevitably become tighter. I want to pull my body away slightly, I don't want her to feel uncomfortable from my hardness. But I can't, the slight friction of our bodies together becomes my anesthetic.

It's a juxtaposition really, how instead I end up pushing her body with mine so she's backed against the wall. Her hands move frivolously everywhere; my upper back, my chest, my neck, my butt. I'm surprised by how comfortable I feel with her doing this, I'm surprised with how hard it makes me when she's doing this.

As if by natural instinct, my hips push against her body, our thin-materialed shorts makes me feel everything. She lets out something like a whimper in the back of her throat and I never could've prepared myself for how much I wanted to hear that sound over and over again. I wanted to make her, make that sound over and over again.

Remarkably, my hands stay put with one on her neck and one on her face. I can't bring myself to explore her body yet, no matter how much I crave to. If I make her uncomfortable, if I hurt her; her absence in my life will banish me back to unequivocal suffering. I can't risk it.

Suddenly, the vase. That vase positioned on the high table next to the stairs just at the start of the den; I hear it clink. A little sound that has me flinch away from her; it catches my attention. Its Lyle; clumsily trying to stable the vase he almost knocked over with his hands.