In the Language of the Flowers

| 29 |

✾ Red Rose ✾

Maybe it was the cold winter air. Maybe it was his impending return to college. Maybe it was the words we'd exchanged. Or maybe it was something as simple as inevitability. Of course, this was happening. Wasn't it always going to? How had I ever believed that it wouldn't?

Whatever it was, we kissed so passionately, wildly, desperately, deeply! All the time we'd known each other, all the stolen glances, all the late night discussions about the meaning of life, all the gentle touches, all the tears. Everything we were up until that moment, on our own and together, rushed to the surface, loudly demanding our attention. It whispered to us about how we'd neglected it for too long. How could we? It had been waiting and waiting for this moment. 

Selfish and selfless longing tumbled into the air between us with each ragged exhale, catching on our tongues and making our kisses taste sweeter. 

We left the apartment dark. I could barely see him but felt his warmth, tasted his tongue, heard the sounds of his soft mouth on mine. 

His back thudded against the door. He pulled me to his body, not missing a second; when you waste it for so long, time becomes impossibly precious. 

I breathed his name against his lips, leaning closer to him and against him. When I did, he let out a tiny, high-pitched moan. It was so short and quiet, I knew it had escaped his control, breaking free from the feeble leash he'd kept it on. 

He looked embarrassed. "I--I'm."

"What was that?" I asked him quietly. Our chests heaved against each other. Everything felt a few degrees warmer than usual. 

"Nothing," he said quietly, his voice cracking. 

I rested my hands on either side of his head, my palms flat against the door. "Tell me what made that sound come out of you," I said, leaning closer to him. I gently bit his ear, and he squeaked shyly. I whispered to him, hoping that my voice would coax it out of him, slowly but surely. "I want to know." He turned his head away from me. I kissed his neck. "So that I can do it again." 

Beau looked at me. He was tearing up a little bit, but looked determined. "It's embarrassing." 

I smiled. "Tell me." 

He folded so quickly. "I like it wh..."

"When?" 

"When you...press me against the wall, or...just--" 

I didn't wait, couldn't wait. I brought my body against his, closing the space around him and pushing him so tightly against the door that he was forced onto his toes. His body shuddered like it was skipping a beat. His breath came faster. His hands pulled at my shirt like he was searching for a handhold to keep him from slipping farther into lust. 

His wide eyes narrowed. "Ren," he whimpered. Whimpered. 

I was in trouble. 

"Good to know," I said, trying to get a grip. Self control. 

"Ren," Beau said again. He pulled my shirt up slightly, and I felt cold air on the exposed sliver of skin. "Ren, I'm..." He looked down. That's when I felt it, felt him. I allowed a little air to slip between us, resting my forehead against his. His curls tickled my face. 

"We agreed, Copper," I said nearly silently. I hated myself for it a little bit. The actual love of my life was looking up at me, adorable, vulnerable, and seriously hard. Yet here I was, turning him down. "Slow, right?" 

Beau smiled. "We could do it slowly," he said, his expression coy, his hips seductively shifting, his lips shining. Instantly, my pants felt tighter. It nearly broke my resolve.