Letter Twenty-Eight #3
You groaned against my skin, tracing my birth mark with your tongue. I swore as you yanked my underwear to the side and settled your mouth between my legs.
“Okay, this is—we can—later.” I fisted the sheet. “Hurry.”
“Stop rushing me.” You nipped at the inside of my thigh.
“You’re killing me.”
“Dramatic.”
“Please.” I tried writhing away from your mouth, but you jerked me back. It’s not that I didn’t want your tongue—just that I wanted something else exponentially more. “I want you inside me. Now.”
You slowly lifted up, eyes sparkling black.
So that’s how I got you to do what I wanted. I made a mental note.
Finally, you removed your pants—my underwear, too—then fumbled with the condom, cursing under your breath, hand shaking too much to get it right on the first try.
My heart pounded as I waited, impatient, your arm braced beside my head.
You hesitated long enough to find my gaze again before gently pushing in.
The pain shot through me, sharp and immediate, a burning stretch that stole my breath.
I dug my nails into your side, holding on, anchoring myself.
Not because it hurt too much. Because it hurt just right.
Because it was you, giving me something I’d always longed for.
A pain that I could have without guilt or the crushing burden of shame.
My breath caught with every inch. Yours hitched hard against my neck. You said my name—quiet, broken, torn from your throat. And that undid me more than the pain. That sound. That moment. You, buried inside me and coming undone.
Then you moved, and my body tensed, desperately clinging to the burn, riding that wave as long as I could.
And you felt me doing it. Because of course you did.
“Relax,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to mine, and I obeyed for once, forcing my body to let go. “That’s it, love.” You rewarded me with a kiss, your tongue flicking my top lip, light but grounding. “Breathe.”
Love? Normally I would’ve teased you, laughed, made some quip to lighten the mood.
But I couldn’t. That unexpected slip—the way your voice turned to gravel when you said it—was one of your many pieces, and I wanted them all.
Almost as much as I wanted to hold onto this: the sharp sting of you, still claiming space inside of me.
But then the pain eased, already slipping away, fading too fast, gone too soon—
And this other feeling was…
This was…
God.
For once in my life, words completely eluded me.
There were no words, no quips, no invasive thoughts.
Just your breath mixing with mine, the tremble of your thumb brushing my cheek, the gentle bump of our noses with each thrust, and the harsh beat of your heart when I pressed my hand to it.
The ripple of your muscles as you moved above me, and how beautiful that was.
The soft scrape of your lips as you answered my moan with a more ragged one of your own.
I loved the fullness, the electric shock of it, how it touched something deep inside of me, and that thing wasn’t bad. It wasn’t even wholly me. It was us. Total surrender and souls colliding and all that lame shit I liked to make fun of but secretly wanted and never thought I deserved to have.
But I had it, anyway. Despite asking you for that dark, twisted thing.
Your rhythm faltered. “Look at me,” you ordered softly. “Stay right here.”
I lifted my gaze, swallowing hard at what I saw in yours: fear, concern, awe.
“Talk to me,” you said, rougher this time, picking up your pace.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Always with the talking.”
You gave a breathless laugh—half relief, half burning need. “Then say something,” you murmured, nose brushing mine. “Anything. I need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I whispered, lifting my hand to your face. You nipped at the pad of my thumb. “I’m here.”
You hiked my leg up, driving yourself deeper. Your breath caught, voice breaking as you whispered, “I want all of you.”
“You have me,” I said, already giving in. Already gone.
“Say it,” you rasped, holding my gaze.
“Say what?”
Your hand tightened around my thigh. “That you’re mine,” you said, giving a sharp thrust. “All mine.”
I gasped, fingers digging into your back. I felt the shake in my own body, the trembling need, the sheer devastation of it. The realization that I wanted this, fully and recklessly, no matter the cost. “I’m yours.”
Your lips grazed my jaw, my chin, my mouth. When you spoke again, the plea in your voice wrecked me. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours.” A promise.
You stilled, chest heaving against mine. Then you lifted up, cupped my face, and skimmed the corner of my mouth with your thumb. “Mine.”
A confirmation. A claim. A quiet, unshakable truth.
And when you kissed me again—slow, deep, lingering—I felt it there, too. The certainty. The devotion. The hushed reverence of someone who wanted me all to himself, despite that dark thing I’d given you.
“You know I’ll hold you to that, right?” you said, lightly thrusting again.
“Or maybe it’ll be the other way around,” I said breathlessly, moving with you.
A chuckle, low and warm against my ear. “You? Fighting to convince me? Hell would have to freeze over.”
Well, look at that, Casey. There’s a rare freeze in the forecast after all.
You shifted onto your back, guiding me carefully on top of you, keeping us connected the whole way.
I hesitated to move—unsure, nervous, afraid of doing something wrong—while you waited, hands curling around my hips, thumbs pressing into bone.
“Don’t overthink it,” you said, gently rocking me. “Get out of your head. It’s just you and me. Let go.”
So I did—slowly, tentatively—bracing my hands on your chest. While I found a steady rhythm, you quickly unraveled.
Hands dragging higher, gripping me all over.
Gaze growing hungrier, needier, more desperate.
Whispered curses slipping from your lips.
You’re so fucking beautiful. I can’t—God, look at you. Jesus. Fuck.
Watching you come apart unraveled me, too—but not in the same way. Your unraveling looked like desire. Mine felt like fear.
Because wanting, for me, usually led to losing. When I failed to be what someone really wanted, they walked away.
So I ducked my head and kissed your neck, tasting your skin until it soothed the burning fear in my chest.
“I’ve dreamt of this moment a thousand times,” you said against my shoulder, teeth grazing my skin, your fingers tangled in my hair. “It never came close to this.”
“You’re just saying that,” I said against your throat.
You instantly pushed me back. “Don’t,” you said, like I’d touched something I shouldn’t have. Like truths were meant to be revealed here, and I’d brushed aside one of yours. Like you were really saying, Don’t take this away from me.
“You don’t even know how good you are,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over my trembling chin. “How much I need this. Need you.”
Good. So much more than a simple word. It touched the deep, dark place in my damaged heart that wanted to be something other than bad, messed up, broken, a hard no, a psychopath, a freak.
An open wound, exposed to the gravelly heat of your voice.
That word didn’t belong to someone like me.
But there you were, giving it to me, anyway. Giving me something I’d always craved.
“I need you to believe it,” you said. “Let yourself have this. Have me.”
I stared into your eyes, tears burning in mine—the raw, scraping ache of wanting to believe and fearing I shouldn’t.
To keep from crying, I pressed my lips to yours.
“Tell me you believe it,” you said against my mouth, curling your hand against my scalp.
“I do,” I whispered, rolling my hips, moving faster, surrendering to the moment. To you.
And then there was nothing but sensation. The wild push and pull of us, the heat of your skin, the way our bodies locked together flawlessly—like we’d been made for this, for each other.
We were lost. Floating. Bound.
I’d fought it so hard: the idea that my first time should be special. But it was. Because you weren’t some random boy. You were someone I fully trusted. Someone I knew really well. Someone I loved, even.
You were right about that, too, Casey. Right about all of it.
When it was over, we lay there, tangled together, our hearts still hammering. You traced lazy circles across my hip as I pressed soft kisses to your shoulder.
“Oh my God,” you murmured against my forehead. “That was…”
Amazing. Hot. Beautiful. All words you could’ve chosen instead of the one you did.
“Perfect.”
The impossibility of it—the lie—sliced right through me.
Even worse? He’d said it, too. On the sofa downstairs. When we were all snowed in together. You’re perfect for me.
My lips stilled against your skin.
“I didn’t know it could feel like that,” you said, voice filled with wonder.
I forced myself to breathe. “Like what?”
You lifted up onto your elbow. “Like it meant something.” You took my hand and brought it to your chest, flattening my palm over your still-racing heart. Curling your fingers around mine, you took a shaky breath. “I love you.”
You finally said them.
The words I’d hoped you’d never say out loud.
Because once they were out there—real and shimmering with expectation—they could be lost.
“I’ve wanted to say it for ages,” you said softly. “I love you, Elliot.”
My face crumpled.
“Hey,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over my cheek. “Don’t cry. I didn’t say it to upset you.”
But the tears kept coming. Hot and fast and unstoppable.
I shoved myself upright, pulling away from your warmth, your goodness, everything that made you perfect and me not. I reached blindly for your cardigan at the foot of the bed, fumbling and shaking, desperate to cover myself.
“Elliot.” Your voice cracked.
It cracked me, too, but I couldn’t stop, tugging the cardigan around my shoulders, hands shaking as I tried slipping my arms into the sleeves.
You lifted up, helping, guiding my arms through your sweater, slow and careful, as if one wrong move might shatter me completely.