Mess You Made

35.*

Malibu.

I don't know how I'm waking up with him again. He's here, though. My body's so aware of him — I think he's awake, I can't entirely tell, I've just stayed here in the warmth of him.

I've woken up to him before but the pressure of his arm against me and the feel of his forehead resting against the back of my neck makes my mind all heady. The weight of his arm slung around my waist tightens in the quiet of the morning. I don't open my eyes because I don't want to move, don't really exactly want it to end.

It's still dark in my room with the curtains drawn but I can hear the sounds of Cristian and Marci in the kitchen.

He's so warm.

Feels like I'm standing on a precipice and I don't know whose making the next move but I'm too tired, too sluggish to be decisive right now. We're barely awake, our minds barely alive and then when it feels like we're holding our breaths, I tip my head back towards him. Silently. Quietly.

I feel his face bury against my neck. Then his lips. This kiss against the side of my throat that resonates through my whole body. I turn my face in towards the pillow then, allowing my hair to cover some of my face. Still keeping my eyes shut because I don't want to break the haze.

I let his palm slide down my waist. His fingers dance across my stomach. His shirt that he was wearing last night still has that warm amber vanilla scent, and we're pretending as if we can't feel each other, as if each touch is minute and fleeting and barely there but it is— there. It's so hard to ignore that I feel it in my chest as I breathe.

I pretend it's fleeting when his fingers slip under the waistband of my shorts. When my hips give a light push forwards, a silent beckon for him where nothing matters because the dawn is like a haze around us. I don't care to deliberate, or think. I just need. I need, need, need.

All we are is need.

He needs too because he uses the pressure of his palm to push my lower body back so we're aligned. My body slots into the curve of Miguel's. His fingers fall where I need him most and my soft gasp is the first noise to break the silence, my breathing drifting to something heavier as he works me.

Our bodies begin to push against one another and god, I want him in my skin. It's wanton. How much he can make me want him but Miguel's spare arm comes up above me on the pillow, sort of cradling my head as two fingers push inside me and I know bodies have held me before but it's strange how it feels as if nobody's held me this close. As if he's breached a proximity nobody has before. And I haven't even looked back to him yet.

Amongst my shaking breaths, I let my hand fall behind me and Miguel tenses as my fingers slide past up his shirt. Trying to hold onto something. Craving the warmth of his skin, the divot of the muscles he hones and then my head falls back, I breathe into the dark, "Let me take care of you too."

He doesn't hide his soft torment as I feel him lean his stomach into my touch. His voice is rough from sleep, tormented, lips still pressed to my throat, "I'm all yours, Mali."

His fingers are still working me to a sweet torture. I try to squeeze my legs together, but he pries them apart for him to keep going, deep but slow until all my body can comprehend is him inside me.

Miguel's forearm above my head comes down, lightly locking around my neck to hold me against him and I keep my head tipped back as I drag my hands down to the waistband of his boxers, know where the tattoo on his v-line is, see it in my mind's eye and moan soft into his arm as his fingers speed up.

Faintly, I hear Cristian's voice. The sound of him getting closer, walking into the living room and he's close so I try to press my lips together.

And we aren't pretending anymore, we're everywhere, all over one another and I don't want it any other way. He feels so good, how does he always feel so good? I could bury myself into the crook of his lean forearm, swarmed in his scent. It's like a fucking abyss and I've never fallen into the abyss of someone before— not like this.