Epilogue
His mouth tasted so sweet—his skin smelled of chrysanthemums. Those were the first things I noticed when he touched me that night.
I hadn’t intended on following him home—I hadn’t intended on getting familiar with the feeling of his hands tugging at the curls of my hair or his heart beating so quickly against my own.
There were so many things there—in that night, that never-ending desire—that made no sense to me, yet felt routine all the same. As if we’d been there before—as if he’d always known how to touch me.
And my body—God—it was as if my body knew his. Lighting up at his every touch, shivering at the feel of his breath, anticipating and begging for anything—anything else he’d give me. More, more, more. I responded to him in the way you respond to a lover you’d trust your soul with.
He put his tongue in my mouth and stripped me naked; his hands conquered every inch of me.
As I lay sprawled out on his bed that smelled so flowery and sweet—he devoured me.
And when those intense, calculating, green eyes locked onto mine, they seemed to tell me: yes, baby—we’ve been here before. Welcome home. I’ve missed you so much.
And when he sank into me fully—connecting us to our very cores—those demanding, dominating eyes began to cry.
Drip by drip his tears fell onto me—into my mouth and mixed in with my own as they slid down my cheeks.
He seemed overwhelmed, maybe even a bit mournful.
His hands held me like they’d been so patiently waiting to do just that for so many years—centuries even.
His voice was so soft, so scared and possibly even confused when he leaned down and—right against my mouth, as he thrust into me as if he were trying to memorize each sensation as he went—he said:
“I… Let me worship you. Even if it’s just for tonight.” He sounded broken, so desperate for it. There was no part of me, especially with his sensual, slow thrusts building a heat so deep inside of me, that wanted to deny him.
“Okay.”
And he did. He kissed and licked and touched every inch of me—insisted on becoming familiar with all parts of my body. And then, when I would come, he’d hold me as I’d cry and he’d say:
“God—this is our souls connecting. I’m learning your spirit as well as your body. I want it all.”
He’d been so greedy. I came over and over again, so much pleasure at his hands as he stared down at me with so much longing, so much fear and uncertainty.
And after so many hours, or maybe not many—time became a warped thing in our never-ending desire, that endless night—he finally let himself come.
So deep inside of me—he was so deep inside of me.
I wept. I wept for so long, so harshly. I don’t remember why.
I just remember feeling the need. Feeling the overwhelming, desperate urge to sob and hold him—to feel every pulse and groan that left his body.
And I wept for a long time after—but he held me then, too. He held me and shushed me, kissing away tears that wouldn’t go away—not really. Not when his own were building onto mine and neither of us were able to stop this onslaught of emotion.
Why? Why were we like that? What was that hot, horrible, desperate emotion coursing through me as I was wrapped in his arms—as I felt him still settled so deep into my core?
I had never felt anything like that before. That kind of desire, that kind of sorrow or fear. And now—every moment he is not touching me feels like a moment I am committing a sin. I don’t know how to make sense of what happened in that bedroom.
And now here I am, staring out of this window and replaying every moment. Every breath he took—every groan that slipped past his lips—every time he’d hold me as close as he possibly could and he’d say—
“I know—I know, baby. Just like that—you like it just like that.” As if he already knew. Somehow—some way—he did.
“Hey.” My eyes are drawn from the window, turning in my chair to see him there in the doorway. I’d recognize that voice anywhere. I will never be able to get it out of my skin.
“You’re so beautiful. Fuck—you’re so beautiful. I’d do anything—anything you asked. Anything for you. On my knees—I’d beg you for a single touch.”
“Hey.” I shove the memories away—focus on his present attention—not the way he gave himself to me not so long ago.
He stares at me for a moment, calculating and calm. All dominance and sincerity.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Things were a bit… intense after we… you know.” He’s referencing the crying—the desire—the comfort—the misery. None of which was applicable or comprehensible, yet felt so right.
“Sure. I’m okay. Thank you for asking… and you? Are you okay?” He shrugs—blushes.
“I’m fine.” I give him a nod.
“Okay.”
“Alright.” We stare at each other. Some electric current is shooting back and forth between us—I can feel it, almost taste it. His eyes are on fire, so fucking hot it feels like he’s asking me for something. Pleading, almost.
“I—”
“Well—have a good night, then.” He spins on his heel and leaves.
My chest hurts so badly. So badly that when I lift my hands—I can feel the hot tears that are slipping down my cheeks.
What is happening to me? I’ve never felt this way before.
In fact—I’ve never felt much of anything before.
But now… now I can’t stop crying. I want him to come back.
I want him to wrap me up in his arms and tell me to cry for as long as I feel the need.
I need to see that same sorrow reflected back at me—mirrored in his own eyes.
I turn my attention back to the window—swallow the burning emotion—and watch the blue birds as they settle into their nest on the branches outside. So peaceful—so simple.
I want him to touch me again.
I want him on his knees.
Experience the reconnecting of two souls; follow Benjamin and Aaron into the next life.