Outcasts

Part II: Chapter 7

Alex

I do not resist his grip. When he takes my lips, I kiss back. What may have begun as illusory, deniable, soon tastes real, a dangerous scandal. Irreversible.

Knowing this, I only go deeper, invite him into my mouth, a hand against the back of his head for support. It's too late to go back now. My back is pressed against the hard ground, the grassbending under me with little resistance.

I try to form words against his lips. At last he pulls back allowing me to speak.

"Not... Here" I say, still trying to catch my breathe.

Seeming to realise we are in a public area, he nods and get off of me.

It doesn't take long to get back to our room. Still the whole time my mind is reeling. I am not used to such emotions but I can't swallow them down.

He lets me in first and closes the door behind. By the time I turn around, he has already seized my arm. I am confronted with earnest eyes, and the final distance closes between his lips and mine. He holds me firm, but his kiss is gentle, cautious.

He will not stop, even if I struggle or suffocate. This is the one time, the only time, and he holds to me like a lifeline.

My feet keep in sync with his, as I back one step after another. My back is pressed against the bedroom door.

He has lost his patience. He tugs at my shirt, and the more I relent, the harder he advances. I slip to floor, but his movements go unhindered, ragged and hot, as he plunges into my mouth again and again. Each time, he steals a little more of my breath, but doesn't return it. Nor does he let me find it, until my eyes close and I draw mercy from his lungs instead.

Meanwhile, more of his weight crushes me from above. The floors press harder into my back, until I am trapped, pinned and tangled. I feel his hands roam under my clothes, across my chest. He wants my focus on nothing but him, as my freedom to look, breathe, feel, move are all taken away.

But that is fine. Even when I am half bare, with the bite of his teeth down my neck. Even when there is a pull along my muscles, and panic in my nerves, because I know this is what I've been fighting against for so long.

Everything is fine, I tell myself. That is all I need to know to give in, let him explore and test my body like an unfamiliar instrument, let him search me for whatever answers he wants to find.

His hand travels lower, to the edge of my pants. My body is already in anticipation, from his lips, his fingers that seize the side of my waist, his knee that locks firmly against mine. But when my feel the cool of his fingers against my arousal, I am pushed past the line. I stop fighting for air and stop breathing altogether. I feel the smallest stroke of his thumb, and it is enough to fill me with a yearning for him to touch me more, a yearning that courses across my entire body.

I understand this is lust. I understand he has been filling me to the brim with it, made me breathing heavy, my heart pound, my limbs weak, all with no effort. He is no more immune to it than I, as his force has compensated for his grace, his chest rises and falls.

However, he has not lost himself. His movements slow, and he stops to looks to me in uncertainty, and doubt, and confusion.

There is wrong mixed in the right, and he cannot bring himself to go any further.

He knows the truth.