Dirt

20

Princeton

Intimacy can tell so much about you. 

Those who've been intimate with me would know about the little hash marks on the upper inside of my thighs. They would know I get louder the more tired I get. They would know messing with my hair sends me crazy. They would know the stitches on my collarbone from when I fell so awkwardly horrible on a diving board.

They would know the little pocket of chub my stomach just won't abandon. They would know the dark bruise on my ribs for Dad. They would know that, no matter how much I hate it, I'm one of those wimp, pathetic lovers that love contact afterward. It's one of my hook up flaws. I like to touch my lover after despite my many one night sides that kicked me out as soon as I take a second to breathe. 

Being intimate would let you know Knox loves eye contact. They would know he's so incredible with his tongue and makes the best moans. They would know the way his fingers dance over your skin like he's playing a melody with you. They would know his left canine pokes into his bottom lip when he bites it.

They would know scar along his upper hip. they would know the round burn on his upper arm from a cigarette. They would know the tattoo on the left of his chest. It's of someone sitting at a piano with a feminine figure leaning against it in the type of style that draws one picture with one consecutive line. It's an art that captures your attention as you try to interpret it.

Intimacy isn't limited to sex. Part of the high comes from just simply being open. Part of the high is laying on top of Knox's bare chest, listening to the sleep playlist Knox put on just before we both fell asleep an hour ago. My first alarm woke us from the needed sleep, wailing that life didn't stop just because I got laid again.

Neither of us got up anyway. I know I'll get up at the third alarm, ten minutes after the second. Until then I'll savor Knox's chest rising and falling under me and his fingertips dance across the very end of my hairline. The movement gives me shiver across my body yet calming enough for my eyes flutter shut to bask in the moment.

"Why the bee?" I'm startled by the sudden voice. I blink my eyes awake again and peer up at Knox from my position on his chest. His dark eyes lock onto mine in a split second. 

He's all there since I pressed a kiss to him so early this morning. But now we have light, fresh sunlight that glides around his smooth skin -fucking smooth, it's excessively unfair. His jawline is sharp, his cheekbones equally sculpting. His eyes are half-closed, eyelashes partially covering the black hole of the window to his soul. His curls are miss-shapened from me constantly holding onto them. 

He's a statue that doesn't fit in this town. Knox doesn't fit into his life. He has that strange look that makes you stare with the dominating presence yet captivating with his softness. He doesn't fit in his life, he's not the type of man that should be hurt. He shouldn't be fucking a slut stuck in a prison the shape of a trailer. I turn to stare at my backpack across me on the floor, living in the skin-to-skin contact that makes the whole world simpler.

"The bee? Oh, when I was little my parents used to call me their little busy bee. I never stopped moving, never stopped trying to be more involved than I was allowed. My mom used to draw me little bees on my birthday cards too," I shiver at Knox slowly dragging his hand through my hair, combing out knots at the end. His other hand is also drawing his finger from my bee down to ICARUS, tracing every letter, "Eventually it simplified down to just 'bug'. But Stan got our dogs nose print on his bicep so a family-themed tattoo seemed fun and a bug tattoo would be gross."

Knox chuckles, his chest shaking under me. I peer back up at Knox, a smile toying on my face that he mirrors. I look down at his tattoo, the thin black lines laid in a beautifully complex image. I shift on Knox, leaning my body on the opposite side so I can kiss the drawing.