My Favourite Part

02: ophelia

Disclaimer: this chapter includes mature romantic detail – from this point forward, I'll mark the beginning and end of mature scenes with a peach emoji (😉), so that you can skip them without missing too much of the story! So, with that being said...

🍑 (beginning of mature scene) 🍑

God, there's something so magical about this place; about him. The second we step behind the red door, it's like we're in another dimension. Everything's wild and out loud and I'm not afraid of anything or anyone. He always holds the door for me, and when he does, he welcomes me into this world on the hill, where I can be as free as I want to be.

Things are fast and slow all at once - I intertwine my hand with his and, holding his face, I press my lips against his and my back against the door. Our tongues dance, sensual, and I feel him smile against my lips, saying I missed you without saying a word. I reach up and grab a handful of his hair, saying it back, and I'm rewarded with a feverish moan.

"Evie..." Caught up in ecstasy, he says my name like a song, and together, in our perfect rhythm, we're in harmony. He lifts me up; I wrap my legs around his waist and cling to his strong arms and God, I love his strong arms, and my skirt hikes up.

I laugh, breathless, "Eric..." I match his tone, wanton, soft and breathy in between intertwining our tongues, and its enough to grab his attention. He pulls away, and though I whine as he breaks the rhythm, he looks at me with burning intensity, like everything he needs in this moment is beneath my clothes, in my eyes, in me. I'm still wrapped around him, literally and figuratively, and I wonder what we look like from above as he spins me around, making me laugh, and runs as well as he can over to the the little green couch.

He makes me feel like every day is summer, and every moment takes place on a light, sparkling evening. Does that even make sense? He falls, back first, onto the couch, and I love this. He'll never say it, but he likes it when I'm control; when he gives me so much space, so much power, that I have to believe my beauty, believe myself as I make him mine.

The couch is in the centre of the room, under the glass hatch to the rooftop. Under the afternoon, I feel like a seductress. I'm straddling him as he looks up at me, heaving and in love, and I can't remember the last time I felt this alive. I leave a lingering kiss on the bottom of his neck, and pin his hands on either side of his head, all at once playful and serious as a heart attack. He's impatient, and I love that about him. He growls my name now, and I realise neither of us have said a real word yet apart from each other's names. I like it that way. I trail wet kisses down his torso, looking up at my panting boy, saying be patient, baby. I sit up on his lap, and he almost whines, until my hands reach for my blouse. I unbutton it slowly, never breaking his eye contact, because I love to watch him like this - totally at my mercy, willing to wait, like every inch of my body is something special.

My boy, my gentleman, still has his hands where I placed them, on either side of his head, and so I take the lead like he likes, and place them on my hips. As I'm shimmying out of my shirt, I grind my hips on his and I feel a little mean. I grin at him devilishly, and he chuckles, and through the desperation and lust, it sounds like a threat and promise. He doesn't meet my eyes straight away; his gaze is fixed on our hips, moving together, and the sensation drives me crazy and makes him crazy. When he looks at me, his eyes snap up towards mine, and they're a dark, dark blue like a storm.

He sits up, with a firm hand on the small of my back and now he's hovering over me. The cold of his dog tag makes me moan aloud, and pull his hips back on mine as I lift my legs around him again. Now we're intertwined in the most intimate way, and as we move together the atmosphere is transformed. We're not on in a studio apartment on a hill in central London. We're somewhere beautiful, where all that matters is the two of us. As I hold his face and cry out, he peppers kisses on my neck, of course, he never plays fair. His kisses are slow and innocent, all whilst he's making me his; I tug on his hair again, bite his lip, I'm desperate. I can tell he is too, by the way he needs me but won't let himself have all of me; he opens his eyes, and we gaze, before he shuts them again, panting in throes of ecstasy, cursing, as I claw at his back and he rocks his hips against mine.