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Holden

Written directly from personal experience. This is a one shot.
His skin is so smooth.

So soft and warm, it glides under my lips as I make my way down along the side of his gorgeous neck, lubricating him with my saliva in the process. We’re cuddling on the sofa in his cramped, dim bedroom. Posters of bands I’ve never heard of or seen, random drawings, strange quotations all adorn his walls.

I don’t think about that much though, as he’s breathing smiles into my hair. I’m with him right now, and that’s all that matters to me at the moment. He’s in my arms, against my skin, giving me his undivided attention and that’s all I could ever hope for. He giggles as my kisses turn into tiny, teasing little nibbles.

“That’s nice,” he whispers. “Keep doing that.”

And I always obey.

His scent fills my nose and I breathe it in as deep as I would the smoke from a cigarette. It burns the same good feeling up inside me. I feel my chest heave up and down as I inhale deeper. I find myself now smiling too. I sit in his lap and continue nibbling at the softer parts of his neck.

I didn’t tell anyone where I was going to be today.

His lips aren’t too thick, but are far from thin. I especially like them when they’re moist and hot and on mine. His eyelashes are thick and long, fluttering against my face when we get too close. They’re closed at the moment, but his eyes are some type of blue or grey. I can never tell. I always blush and look away every time we make direct eye contact. He always wins the silent staring contests.

He is beautiful.

I gently pull away from his neck and we’re staring one another in the eyes. He makes a fool of me once more as I look away down to my hands I just clasped in my lap. He holds them both and whispers my name. I feel his warm breath on my face, going increasingly red in the face. The way I can switch from being confident, or nothing but putty in his hands is astounding.

His coffee breath, his square front teeth, his scruffy facial hair, his thick glasses. I want to look up but I don’t want to look him in the eye. My senses are becoming overwhelmed. My face flushes an impossible red and my heart pumps so loud that I’m surprised he doesn’t mention the sound.

“Want to do something fun?” he teases. One hand still on my clasped hands, he uses the other to lift a piece of stray hair from my face.

We’re all made to believe this is love.

He’s a vision, an absolute beauty. His hands are soft and his nails perfectly trimmed. His fingers are long and bony, yet have a very graceful elegance to them. He wears an old ring belonging to an old relative on his right index. More soft, perfect, unbroken skin. Compared to his, my hands are stubby and dirty, now that I realise. The skin around each and every one of my fingernails is torn. Some are even on the verge of bleeding. It’s a nervous habit of mine. If I agree to this, it’ll all be over. This perfect moment we’re having right now, this warm intimacy.

“I don’t know…“I say.

Liar, liar.

“I’m just a little tired…”

Pants on fire.

“… I think I should probably be getting home soon though.”

Like anyone ever buys that one anymore.

His hand moves from holding my hand to sliding up and down my pant leg. One gaze from those eyes, those strange eyes, and I am becoming so nervous and full of anxiety that I no longer can stand being here. What was innocent embracing has turned into something seemingly dangerous. The tone of the room is different now that I think about it. It’s no longer cramped, it’s inescapable. How did I end up here again?

“Maybe you could stay a bit longer today though?”, he suggests as he allows me to get up from his lap and onto the spot on the sofa beside him. He sits up and wets his lips quickly while talking. He only makes it look like he doesn’t try to persist me into things.

But I am helpless to resist. Butt-stuck in that proverbial telephone wire.

“Please?” he says, tilting my chin up so now I’m forced to look into those eyes. My heart races faster, my face and ears burning. I don’t know why he makes me feel like this. I kiss his nose in response, accepting the invitation. I don’t want to at all, but I do.

What happens next is he gets up from the sofa to fetch that little something from his bedroom drawer. A shiver runs down my back as he turns around and before I know it, we’re having another staring contest.

I am trying hard not to look away as he approaches me. This is my final chance to stand my ground before I know I’ll succumb to desire. I try to win this staring contest, but I’m losing as his eyelashes start to flutter against my cheeks. I have already lost when I feel his graceful hands massaging my sides. I am throbbing with lust as his finger rubs me over my jeans.

We all only convince ourselves this is what love feels like.

I don’t know where my mind is when I step out of his room half an hour later - maybe I left it in the same spot I threw my jeans and forgot to retrieve it. I’m feeling light-headed and a little sick, but I don’t let him see any of this.

But he’s so beautiful, leaning there against his door frame with his tousled hair, his little smirk, his perfect hands, strong arms and broad shoulders. His scent, still wafting from every direction and, oh God, those eyes I still can’t determine the colour of looking at me.

“Same time next week?” he asks, stretching his arms and exposing a bit of his stomach, a touch of his dark hair peeking through.

This is the part every week I should say no. This is my chance to ball my fists and tell him no more. I should say I’m sick of being used, him only paying attention to me when he wants something and ignoring me the rest of the time. How I just want to be with him, and not be used by him. Around this time is when I should say I refuse to keep doing this to myself..

He’s just standing there, barefoot and waiting for my reply. Him and his old band shirts and ripped jeans. That scent and those eyes. I can’t say what I want anymore. He blinks every five seconds. Cool. Composed. In control.

I am skipping heartbeats.

The spotlight is on me but I’ve forgotten my rehearsed lines.

“Definitely,” I say. I even smile at him for reassurance.

We all convince ourselves this is what love really feels like.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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