Green

The cool autumn breeze wafts in through the open windows, leaving goosebumps on my skin. 

It’s dark in the house with the exception of the warm glow of a bergamot scented candle I apparently left burning while I was out. The cinnamon tea I made before I left for work this morning also still sits on the counter. I go over to the stove and heat it up. 

Autumn always makes me nostalgic... Endings and beginnings, relationships solidifying and winding down, memories falling like leaves. I can’t help but romanticize it all. The process of releasing the past and allowing myself to begin again feels sacred. 

When I’m done in the kitchen, I position myself in the living room, sliding onto the sofa, taking my first sip of tea. The sweet, spicy warmth moves past my tongue, gliding down my throat. The heat spreads across my chest, eliciting a shiver. I reach for a blanket and wrap myself in it, curling up in front of the television. 

As my body relaxes, my mind starts to drift. I’m wandering through the vast expanse of my memory when I begin to follow a specific thread of nostalgia. A pang, a need, a memory of him. A man I knew so long ago. Before I was married. Before I knew the difference between love and lust. 

Four Years Earlier 

We aren’t speaking this week. Things with us are always shifting, which is to say that James is, by nature, very inconsistent. I, out of misguided desperation, tolerate it. 

The shape of our relationship unnerves me with its absence. But he does show up. Eventually.

He taps lightly at my door. It would be imperceptible to anyone else, but I know it’s him. I've grown accustomed to the way his hands move.

I open the door and there he is. Standing in front of me, solid, sturdy, and sexy as hell. I hate the way he towers over me, his frame eclipsing mine. The power struggle in our relationship is present even kinesthetically. In height and weight and so much more, he has the upper hand, and it drives me crazy. I yearn to have “control” over some aspect of our relationship. I wish I could be the one to not text for months, I wish I could be the one who likes him less. I wish I could not seem so needy and vulnerable, eternally naked on the scale of superiority. I want to be cool, unapologetic, present but detached. 

But that’s his role. He plays it well. 

He smells of ash and sandalwood. We stand in silence, assessing each other. 

Dark wavy tresses frame his face. His big blue eyes, full lips and light smattering of freckles are striking. I could stare at his face for hours and find something new each minute, a scar, a new expression, an unused piercing I hadn’t noticed before. He’s edgy, no doubt. But there is also an innocence to his appearance, one that reveals a depth I’m certain of.  

His gaze bears into mine until I can’t take it anymore. He knows just how to get me. Every. Single. Time. 

Within seconds, I’m walking towards him, drawing near like a moth to a flame. He catches my waist before I can fully get there, pulling me until I’m flush against his broad chest. His eyes rake over me.  

I open my mouth to speak. A weak "Hi" is all I can manage.  

He smirks, his eyes twinkling. "Hey baby," he says, tightening his grip on my waist. 

I step back, moving away from him and back through my doorway. He follows me, locking the door on his way in.  

"What are you doing here?" I ask, standing in front of the marble island in the middle of my kitchen. 

He begins casually taking off his coat. "I wanted to see you," he says, “So I'm here.” 

The cockiness in his voice, coupled with the way he’s standing in my kitchen, infuriates me.

"I’m not sure I want to see you," I say, feigning chilly indifference. 

He walks around to me, closing the distance between us. There is a tenderness in his face. It stirs an arousal in me I can’t deny. 

“Tell me what you saw in me that first night," I say. I need to be reminded.

I met James in college. I was a freshman, he was a senior, so it was unlikely that we would ever run into each other on campus or travel in the same friend group. Yet somehow we ended up in advanced photography together. At first I didn’t really pay much attention to him, in all honesty, I could never remember his name. But his eyes, the intensity of them, the pure unabashed blueness, the way in which he made a point to maintain eye contact when he spoke...that stuck with me. 

A month into the semester, we were paired together for a project. He seemed to have an intense work ethic, so that was good enough for me. What struck me as odd was how pleased he seemed to be that he was paired with me. It was like he’d been waiting for an opportunity to talk to me one on one. 

That first night we worked on our project, just the two of us alone in his one bedroom apartment in Queens. We took photos, made outlines, discussed our creative trajectory. At some point in the evening, our focus shifted. He asked if he could take my picture, and though I was hyper aware of my appearance, insecure and innocent, I said yes. He had the effect of inspiring me to do things I wouldn’t normally do. 

The way he watched me while staging and repositioning various shots was almost too much to bear. He surveyed me, missing nothing with those eyes and that unrivaled attention to detail. If talking to him gave me a buzz, then having his undivided attention felt addictive. I felt beyond self-conscious, but at the same time, I didn’t want him to stop.  

He paused, looking down at his camera, seriously. 

“What?” I said.

“It’s just that you have this mysterious vibe. I was wondering if it would come through on camera.” 

“And did it?” 

“In some shots,” he said. 

“What’s so mysterious?” I asked, feeling a little startled by his take on me. He didn’t really know me, let alone my vibe. 

“I just mean that you seem guarded,” he said, as if sensing my apprehension. Again with the intent focus. 

“I’m not guarded, just selective with the information I choose to share.” 

“Same thing.” 

“Not really,” I said, slightly perplexed by his boldness. 

“Well then, what’s with the selective information sharing?” 

I could have stopped the conversation right there, ended the whole thing, shut him down like I would shut down anyone else who presumed to know me so well after just a few hours spent together. But I didn’t. Maybe in an error of judgment, or maybe in a spark of faith, I let him in. 

“What do you want to know?” 

“Everything,” he said, with an earnestness that stunned me.  

For the rest of the semester we were drawn to each other. We would meet for coffee after class, talking about everything from Georgia O’Keeffe to Sam Cooke, reality shows to socio-economic race theory. He was intelligent, that was obvious, but it wasn’t that aspect of him that made me feel like I was perpetually beyond my depth. Everything about him just seemed so intense. Having a conversation with James was like staring at the sun, even when I looked away I could still see remnants of him in everything. But I was a freshman and he would be graduating soon. The dissonance between our conflicting seasons of life was torture. For me, at least. 

We reconnected years later, long after I graduated, and developed something more than friendship. James’ unnerving audacity was still the same, his intensity, his edginess. I was different though. A grown woman with a real life and responsibilities that extended far beyond him. Yet in his presence, even in the thought of him, I was still that college freshman with no idea what to do with herself.

~~

He gazes down at me, as if to gauge the seriousness of my question.  

"I saw you. Radiant, kind, innocent. You’re not an angel. But...definitely somewhere close,” he says. 

He reaches for my neck, his grip soft, tauntingly so. It’s like he knows he can have me, that I’m his to take and do whatever he wants with. But instead, he teases me, challenges me, and gives me a choice to deny my own desires. 

I moan, unable to resist his grip. His voice low, his breath against my ear lighting a fire within me. 

“I thought you didn’t want me here,” he whispers, hands traveling down my body until he reaches the curve of my ass.  

He cups me with both hands, gently squeezing. He releases me only to bring both hands down hard, an audible slap that I know will leave me red. I whimper into the crook of his neck, pushing my ass back against his hands. 

“Tell me what you want.”  

His command sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my pussy. I know what I want. The very proximity of him is intoxicating. He tilts my chin up until our eyes meet.  

“Answer me,” he says, as I watch my desire multiply in his eyes. 

“You have goosebumps everywhere,” he runs his fingers along my arms. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”  

I shake my head, unwilling to acquiesce just yet. It’s a push and pull, back and forth game we play, one with no winner and no ending in sight. I secretly feed off the drama of it, the dysfunction, the emotionally dangerous unpredictability that James brings to my life. 

Noting my resistance, he steps back until we’re an arm’s length away from each other, looking me up and down as if appraising the situation. He rolls up his sleeves, showcasing his muscled biceps covered in tattoos.  

Finally, after an intense pause, he speaks low and taunting, “Okay, have it your way.”  

Before I can process his words, he hoists me up, my ass meeting the cool surface of the island. Spreading my legs, he cups the silk fabric covering my pussy. He grabs the fabric, pulling it taut between my folds. I squirm, trying to find friction where I need it most. 

“You know, if you’re so confident that you know what I want, why don’t you just give it to me?” I ask between breathy moans. 

“We both know that would be too easy.” He pulls the panties tighter against me, letting the silk saw against my clit. 

“Please stop teasing me,” I whine, my voice laced with need. Need for an orgasm obviously, but also for something deeper. A relationship beyond the back and forth. Consistent intimacy. Everything impossible. I’ll settle for an orgasm.

He chuckles as his blue eyes shimmer, bringing a hand around my waist to steady me.  

“Look who has something to say. It’s a shame, if you had spoken a few minutes ago I wouldn’t have to punish you.” With that, he walks over to the other side of my kitchen. 

He rummages through my drawers until he finds what he’s looking for:

Scissors.  

He arches an eyebrow, silently questioning, asking consent. 

“Green,” I say in a strained whisper, that’s our go word. I scoot forward, holding on to some combination of arousal and trepidation. 

He brings the cool metal to my skin. Starting from my collar bone, he traces the scissors over my breast, lingering on each of my hardening nipples. His fingers drift across the spaces in the blade’s wake, leaving me wanting. I try my best not to squirm. There’s a look of determination on his face, one that I do not particularly want to disturb.  

Then he reaches my pussy. It’s like I’m on fire. My whole body quivers as he grabs the fabric of my panties and cuts. 

The silk tears in one swift motion, leaving my pussy bare. 

“You know, I actually liked those,” I say, only half in protest.  

He lets out a low chuckle, “I’ll buy you a new pair,” he says, “after I fuck you.” A whimper escapes my lips making him smile. 

He runs a finger along my vulva, feeling my wetness. “You want me so bad. I don’t know why you deny yourself.” 

It’s all too heavy. The intensity between us is electric in proximity but disastrous in distance. I push those thoughts away.

“I’m not denying myself right now,” I say, more to myself than him. 

He dangles my panties in front of me. “Just look at how wet you are for me. Open your mouth.” 

I hesitate. He pins me with a warning look, his bright blue eyes disarming me into submission. I open my mouth and he inserts the silky fabric, covered in my wetness. 

“You taste good, don’t you? Just watching makes me want a taste.” 

I gasp as he slides two thick fingers into my opening with no resistance. I let out a muffled scream, grabbing his shoulders. He pushes in deeper, as I contract around him. Sliding his fingers out as effortlessly as they went in, and leaving me empty and aching, he rises, cupping my breasts, palming my nipples until they’re hard buds. He pinches them, and then slowly trails his hand down my sides. Gripping my hips, pulling my body towards his until we’re flush together. I feel his erection pressing against my thigh. I slowly move my hips, trying to get friction. Trying to get anything to ease the emptiness in my center. 

James pulls away, releasing me from his grasp and begins walking deliberately up my stairs. I know what he’s doing, drawing the seduction out, prolonging my arousal, my pleasure, my release. I follow him silently, submitting not to him, but to the inexplicable desire he awakens in me. He looks back and I feel... if we could just keep doing this for the rest of our lives then everything would be perfect.  

He winks at me and then continues his journey up my spiral staircase. The moment passes.

After we turn the corner into my bedroom, everything exists within a haze of desire. James picks me up like I’m weightless, throwing me onto my bed, pressing me down into it with the weight of his body. 

I’m delirious, pleading with him to just take me already. He chuckles low, showcasing that gorgeous smirk, his dimples making me feel warm inside. We lock eyes, him holding my gaze until I can’t take it anymore. Intensity and eye contact are the most intimate emotional currencies we exchange. 

The moments before he’s inside me—these are my favorite parts. Before we’re connected in every sinfully delicious way. Before I let myself go and give into the senseless pleasure of it all. I want to crawl into his body and live there for the rest of my life, safe from everything outside. That’s how crazy he makes me. I have never felt this way about a man. 

Maybe he knows this, maybe he doesn’t. I’d never speak life to any of it. I’ve settled for letting my body reveal all the things I’m afraid to say. 

He pushes into me all at once, his length reaching the deepest places inside me. I writhe, my legs trembling as I wrap them around his torso, wailing as he pulls out all the way, only to press back into me, his pelvis slamming against mine.

He continues with that pace, driving me crazy with each thrust. Almost as sudden as his knock on my door, I’m being pushed over the edge. Every fiber of my being tenses, then I release with shuddering pleasure. 

Tingles course through my body, the skin on my face and chest go flush. My breath is heavy, my eyes shut in surrender. I’m finally there, reaching the climax he’s been teasing me with since he walked in. 

I drown in my ecstasy. I’m hypersensitive and hyper-aware. For a second, I come to the surface, feeling the fresh air, the warmth on my skin. Then I’m back under, his cock pushing me over the edge again, the second wave coursing through me. 

Present 

A knock at the door pulls me out of my memories. My tea is cold again, but I’m hot. I savor the memory for one more moment, before heading to the door.