Flash Fiction: “Winter”

Posted on January 6, 2017January 6, 2017 by Jade A. Waters

This winter will be a cold one, she thinks.

She pulls the covers up to gather the thick layers of down beneath her chin. Once, she threw back these covers even on the coldest of nights, because she needed them aside to draw him into her arms. The two of them would curl up together so that the touch of their bodies could fight the chilly winter’s embrace, letting the heat between them grow forever hotter, and deeper.

Вадим Захарищев ©123RF.com

Here though, now, the chill suffuses her lungs and heart. It drains out into her veins in sharp bursts of ice, consuming each organ, every cell. When she exhales, she swears she can see the puff of air against the stillness of her room. The blinds are open, the sun beyond her view, but the glimmer of its light reveals the frost covering the glass and the snow-tipped trees outside. The sight makes her shiver, the cold bone deep when she thinks of him.

It was so much warmer with him here.

She clenches her eyes shut and tucks her face under the blanket. It doesn’t feel as secure when she expels breath after breath to warm her naked flesh. Security was the trace of his fingertips over this skin to fill her body with fire, and her heart with love. When his arms held her tight in the cold of this room, she never felt a chill. The blackness behind her eyelids is fitting for winter and still, such a contrast to what she knew before, with him. She knew lightness. Pure lightness. Joy. She imagines his smile, hears his laugh. Feels the trace of his breath over her ear before he whispers into it.

I love you, he says.

The memories flow fast through her as she breathes, and breathes again. She tries to channel them into heat, replaying them like a dream she needs not to end. She recalls his kneel over the broken couch he fixed for her, and the grin he kept flashing her direction as he did. She holds her belly at the thought of the endless dinners he made for her, the easy scoop of her hand into his, or his gentle brush of her hair off her neck before he kissed her. She pictures the messages he’d send to cheer her on the worst of days, and his amusement when she stroked his thigh in her quiet listen to every little word he had to say. She remembers how hard they’d laughed midway through fucking on the kitchen table after a chair fell over to scrape her wall, a staggering interruption to one more blissful, earth shaking moment shared between them.

Since he’s left, she’s stared at that scrape one hundred times. Each time, she imagines his kisses. His thrusts. The laugh echoed throughout her kitchen like the cold does in her bedroom now. She craves the sound of his voice again. She aches for him, close, once more.

She knows that she needs him more than anything—the weight of him above her, the press of him inside. His arms, his heart, his love, and the fleeting memories that try to slip from her like the air coming from so deep within her chest. It’s cold and heavy to remind her this winter will be a long one, and this bed has never felt so alone.

When she tugs the blanket over her head, tears sting her cheeks like the ice freezing her heart. She pulls her knees into her arms, knowing, somewhere inside, that spring will come. She only hopes it will come faster to light her world in the blossom of their love.

But for now, she merely thinks it again.

Winter will be a cold one this year.

Erotic Fiction: What I Want

Posted on July 26, 2016December 26, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

I don’t know him yet, but I want to.

I want to know how his chest feels pressed against mine, naked. How the rake of his hands will feel over my breasts, and how deep he’ll thrust his cock inside. I want the breath that plays over my face now to spill over me, raspy and hungry, as we fuck together somewhere seedy and dark—our bodies colliding with the desire we’ve felt since we met here, not a word needing to be said because the way we danced said it all.

At this moment, he clutches me to him. His fingers laced into my hair halfway through the last song, and I can feel the bulge he’s been harboring in his jeans for the better part of our dance. We haven’t broken apart since we gelled together, and this panting between us has nothing to do with the rhythm of our dance. It’s the beat of our longing, pounding and deep, filling us as we barely drift across the floor and I roll up my hips to feel him closer. I am wet for him, wet since I saw him at the bar, and I want him to know what that feels like, what indulgence he’ll find in me, needing and hot, waiting for when we will leave here.

Dmitrii Kotin ©123RF.com

As the next song starts, he kisses me. I still don’t know his name. In a past life, I wouldn’t want anyone to know that I’d come here to find someone, something, the perfect match for my lust in this moment. I wouldn’t want anyone to label me a slut, or any of those other words that drip from the tongue with so much scandal, even now. But to say I care about these things would be a lie, because my wants are mine to fuel, to breathe, to live. The touch of his tongue to mine is like fire, an inferno drawing us nearer, making the will to stay on this dance floor a quiet voice I cannot hear over the sound of my heart.

“You want to go somewhere?” I ask.

He nods; he is like me. His body knows what needs to happen, knows desires are the essence of life and meeting them, when they’re right, is what should be. And so we slip out of this place and away in a cab. We direct the driver to a shabby motel not five minutes away while we toy with buttons, zippers, and hems. We are silent as we take the hallway down to the room the receptionist granted us, a near closet at the base of the stairs that neither of us really glances at after we switch the lamp on inside.

Once the door snaps shut, I push him back against it. His fingers find the edges of my panties, shoving inside me while I bring my lips to his face. His kiss back is greedy, wild, his tongue so far in my throat I am gasping, my hand sliding against his belly and into his briefs. He is full and hard, throbbing against my touch, and his fingers in my cunt make it difficult to breathe. He lets me go to grab my shoulders, and he steers me to the bed. Then he sits me on this frumpy mattress while I unzip his pants and take him into my mouth. He moans when I swallow him deep—but this is just the start of it, what I want. I claw my fingers over his hips as I suck harder. Once he pushes me back and down, he climbs over me as I envisioned when we danced. His fingers are quick beneath my skirt, slipping past the soaked barrier of fabric to plunge into me, over and over, making me cry aloud.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, and I fumble for my purse, writhing on his fingers as I fish the condom from inside. I hand it to him in a frenzied squirm because the craving inside me is so intense and hot. I don’t care anymore that we’re still clothed, that he is in me and thrusting deep before I take a breath, that I am moaning at how good this feels, at the rough scrape of his chin on mine when we kiss. He slides his fingers under my shirt, digging them into my sides as I draw up my knees, and I let him all the way inside. When I touch myself, he drives faster. The motion is hard enough to move me up on the bed, our sweat drenching our clothes and the tremor inside me becoming whole. Real.

It is the very thing I’ve wanted since we crashed together on that dance floor.

“Yes,” I moan, because it is washing over me, racking me. He bites down on my lip when I jerk up, coming so hard he must feel me squeezing him inside, urging him to join my bliss. He slides his hands around my shoulders, and he clutches me as he groans against my mouth.

“Fuck, yes, yes!”

When he comes, I suck in air, his air—the raspy, hungry breath I craved. And once he rolls away, we lay there, our bodies numb, our throats dry. Both of us are spent with the wants shared between us.

I feel him peering at me after a few minutes, his cheek on one hand while the other grabs my thigh.

“Was that good for you?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.”

Then I turn to him and smile.

“But I’ll want more.”

You Say You Want to Cook for Me

Posted on May 24, 2016December 26, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

You say you want to cook for me.

You say it while we lie there, naked, your body wrapped around mine and your fingers coasting along my forearm. Your lips are buried in my hair, and you’re breathing me in, quiet. You’re hard behind me, nudging up against my cunt. I want to cook for you. Light up your face with something good, tasty.

You say you want to travel the world together, to venture places you’ve never been. That I’ve never been. We can see every sight there is to see and discover things together. We can get lost in the Bermuda Triangle. Your fingers lace with mine, your breath heavier now. I want to see the world with you. Disappear with you.

I want to make you happy, you say.

Later, you’ll roll on top of me, body heaving over mine, lips pressing, suffocating. Rough. You know I like it like this, the way your entire body can shift me up, how you can bury yourself so far in me I think I’ll break. I want to make you come. I want your sighs, your shudders. I want you, always you. When you finish and I’m trembling, you’ll shove your fingers in your wake, thrusting them in the heat of your come to fill me against walls too tender and weak. I’ll be moaning, whimpering. I want you to come for me, forever. I want everything you have.

I want to own you, you say.

When I have surrendered, exhausted, blissed, you’ll curve your fingers around my neck. Your eyes lock with mine, two dark holes staring over me. I want your life. I want you. You are mine.

I’ll fight you. I always do. I’m twisting, writhing, crying against the novelty of our crimson, satin sheets. But my body is caught up in you, in the fingers of your other hand slipping inside every hole. Your teeth gnash my breast, and your inhalation reminds me who you are, what this is. Who I am.

I am yours.

You will fuck me like this until I come again.

On the balcony, you open up my robe. Your prying fingers are in my slit, with the neighbors right there on their adjacent patio. I don’t want them to see, don’t want them to hear how you speak to me. Not when you’re like this. But I want them to know how you love me. I want them to know I own you, body and soul. I’m quivering at the press of your fingers, hating that I love it when you do this. Hating you.

Shadowed image of naked woman curled in ball

Belikova ©123RF.com

Besides, don’t you want them to see you happy? you say.

After dinner, you brush aside my hair. Your fingertips graze the curve of my shoulder. When you kiss the back of my neck, it is warm and gentle. Tender.

But you are none of these things when you bend me over the oven. Your nails scratch at my thighs before your fingers dig inside.

Why do you make me crazy like this? you say.

I can hear your words over my utterances. They are raspy, angry things that make it hard to believe your fingers still feel this good. This is our once-whispered vacation—you inside me. My skirt is over my ass and you are fucking us away. Thrusting deep enough to push off my sanity, to make me forget.

I want to love you, you say. I want to, but I can’t when you’re difficult like this.

There are tears in my eyes when I come. You’re finished not all that long after, your semen dribbling along my thigh. I can feel it tracing an ugly path down to the inside of my knee, but I don’t move—not when you’re like this. Not as you button your pants, and wander off to grab your keys.

I think I want to leave you, you say.

I still haven’t moved once I hear your car, a rumble off and away in the distance. My fingers grip the burners on the stove, and I watch the white of my knuckles spreading over the flush of sated skin. Your come has made its way to my ankle, now, and I keep wondering if this could have gone differently.

If maybe I’d never said yes when you said you wanted to cook for me.

Friday Flash Fiction: “The Wait”

Posted on April 22, 2016April 22, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

She waits for him outside the bar. It feels longer this time, a slow crawl up a steeper slope. Above her, the neon sign glows like a halo she doesn’t deserve—an interrogation lamp under which she omits something, as easily as “Cocktails” flickers on, off, on… It’s a faint buzz trying to be there, but not quite. Another man asks her for a smoke; she shakes her head, because she can hardly see him.

It’s hard to see anything when she waits for him.

The bouncer nods at her, mouths, Coming in? She isn’t ready. Not yet. They’ve been here one thousand times before. Everybody knows them, their laughs together. They talk secrets of the world, and anecdotes from here to the galaxy over so many drinks and smiles. Those smiles she always sees: in her dreams, in the songs she writes. In her heart.

She can’t quite get him out of her heart.

This, she knows, is the problem. It’s the reason she stands here now, though there’s so much more to it—the way he speaks to her, often, or answers the phone to be sure she’s all right. It’s how he looks at her like she’s his comfort and the answer at the end of a hard day. Like she’s the one he’s been waiting for this long.

Too long.

The air feels colder tonight, but it often does before he comes. It’s not right that he can warm her through with the sound of his laugh, or the bite of his lip while he ponders a response to some moralistic question in the middle of their third round. She thinks of this now, the bite of the lip, how he does it without realizing the catch of her breath, and she crosses her arms over her stomach, waiting. Waiting. Why is nothing more important than him?

“Hey.”

He’s behind her, fingers sliding through the strands of her hair in a gentle caress over her neck. She wonders if he sees the flutter of her eyes when his skin meets hers, if he hears her sharp inhalation as he leans into her ear. His is an aura of confidence and love, and that scent he always wears, making her wish she could tilt her nose against his chin to breathe him in, feel the stroke of his fingertips up her thighs or over her naked back like she used to. His body is firm and protective. Close—before he remembers maybe he’s not supposed to touch her like this. His fingers slip from her skin, taking with them everything that makes her heart skip.

The “Cocktails” sign flashes on again. It lights their faces, and the ring on a finger almost tucked in his pocket when he comes around to face her.

“Have you been waiting long?” He gestures toward the door, and she shakes her head.

“Nope. Not long.” She smiles. He smiles.

Bites his lip.

Once they go inside, their bodies are close.

The above flash story was inspired by lovely F. Leonora Solomon’s “Friday Flash—Cocktails” meme. Click on the badge below to read other stories inspired by her fabulous photo!

Erotic Fiction: This is Love

Posted on March 22, 2016December 29, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

I can remember, sometimes, how we used to kiss. The look in your eyes when you stared down at me, your fingertips sliding around my neck, and up into my hair. Pulling. That I remember well. There was a tension at the base of my skull, almost as hot and heavy as the pound of my heart, the throb of my cunt. Then the way you’d pitch toward me—slow, slow, tiny, quiet ticks of the clock passing by faster than we ever could, because all that mattered to us was this. The weight of the air around us, the press of our lips to come. Sometimes, you whispered my name. Others, you held me, still. But always, I felt it: me, bound to you. Then. Now. Forever.

It felt like this because I loved you.

Arturkurjan ©123RF.com

When we moved together, it was the shock of waves, tectonic plates shifting in violent bursts, ruining the surface of everything around us. We were the only force that mattered. We were the lightning, the storm, the crest of fire blazing across the distant horizon.

We were one.

Mouth to mouth, we lingered. Breathing fast. Bodies close. When our lips parted, I let you in, let your tongue find mine, dance with me. And we swayed like this, hungry and lost, but as easily found in that electricity between us, in the clutch of our bodies, in the gentle hum bursting out to silence anything, everything.

Everything that wasn’t us.

I’d say it was longing, but it wouldn’t be enough. If I called it lust, that wouldn’t be right, either. We were the joining of cells, the collision of atoms, the combustion of two solutions that never quite fit. We were amazing, too. Planets, stars, comets, sun—we were all of it, a galaxy of feeling swirling round us, enveloping us in the way we kissed. In the hold of you to me, and me to you, chests heaving in the blackest night before the rustle of morning wind blew us all apart.

But I know why.

And so do you.

It was all because you loved me, too.

Erotic Fiction: “Everything”

Posted on November 3, 2015November 3, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

He was everything. Everything. The flight of my soul, the fire of my heart.

It’s all I can think as I bury my head in his shoulder, bearing my teeth to his skin, feeling the wild bursts of his pulse as I rock above him. His breath tumbles out into my hair, quiet gasps that tell me how much he needs this. How much he needs me.

Just as I need him.

“You,” he says.

The word breaks on his lips as I arch, sliding farther in his lap, taking him deeper into me. There is no sound in this room but ours, no thought between us but this, no awareness of anything beyond the sweet thrust of his cock as his fingertips dig into my back and steer me closer, like he’s never forgotten me.

I trail kisses up his chin and over his mouth. He sucks my lip between his teeth, his eyes open as he thrusts once, then again. That look, that one, says I will never leave you again. I will never let you go. I can feel it inside as I whimper and slide against him, feel it in my heart as his fingers tease their way up my flesh. He’s so deep inside I swear he’s penetrating my very soul, and I tilt back my head with a throaty moan.

I close my eyes then and he twines his fingers in my hair, staying deep despite his movement to lay me on my back. Our bodies are one on this mess of sheets. He wasn’t supposed to come here again, but then our life together had always been a disaster of shouldn’ts and shoulds.

But deep down, we knew what it was supposed to be.

“You,” he growls.

His kisses find my face as he presses closer, and our stomachs grow slick at the meshing of our bodies. The sway of our hips amplifies, a rapid pounding so intense I couldn’t see straight if I tried. And it’s with this motion—teeth locking on my earlobe, fingers clawing at my breast and down between us, grazing the swollen nub of my clit as he drives inside—that I can feel myself flying like I did, then. He leans back, watches as I gasp and moan, my lips numb as the spasms tear through me, making me shake uncontrollably as he continues to thrust, and thrust.

To love me like only he can.

When I finish shuddering, he releases the loudest groan. It’s the surrender that tells me he needed me then, now, forever. He comes inside, filling me with heat, and as we lay there it’s clear we’ve found our peace again.

“Always, you,” he pants.

His kisses are soft like raindrops from the corner of my eye down my cheek.

“And you,” I say.

Because he’s everything.

Erotic Fiction…With Aura

Posted on September 22, 2015December 29, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

In the last three weeks, I’ve been through two doctor phone appointments, five live doctor appointments, one MRI, several blood tests, and even one full-fledged panic attack. To say it’s been a little bit of a roller coaster is an understatement—but the good news is, there’s nothing major wrong. Yay!

So what is going on? Well, according to the fabulous neurologist I saw last week, my migraines have morphed into something really goddamn special. I am fortunate in that I don’t generally get the nausea and hammer-pounding headaches of most traditional migraine sufferers; unfortunately, I get all sorts of weird sensory problems instead: depth perception issues, tingling and/or numbness in my arms, mental disconnect, vertigo, occasional vision problems, and sometimes, the headache. This time, however, I developed a bizarre numbness in my cheek—and later, the entire side of my face—paired with completely blurred vision in one eye, which led some doctors to believe I might be having a stroke. (That would be the day the panic attack struck, by the way.) I am thrilled to say that isn’t the case, but it does appear a chronic basilar/sensory migraine took residence in my head for over three weeks—complete with all these fun new symptoms!

I’m getting to a point here, I swear (migraine brain fog is real, people). When I mentioned to the neurologist that I’ve been okay writing in short spurts in the morning, but everything else is sending my head into a spin, he suggested I stop the cycle of migraine with a heavier duty NSAID and a few days off (and yes, I totally followed doctor’s orders there). However, when I asked him how migraines could literally change overnight and cling, desperately, in ways they never had before, his response was the most poetic and frustrating thing I could possibly have heard:

“The life of a migraine is a mysterious and beautiful thing.”

I totally laughed that off. But Saturday morning, as I lay tossing and turning under my covers in a groggy, migraine-clouded and dreamlike state, I was thinking about the bizarre tingles raining over my brain that didn’t hurt at all, but that were making things really fuzzy and weird.

And suddenly, I had this spark of an idea:

What if a person could embody the essence of a migraine? What would she be like, as a lover?

It took me a while to drag myself out of bed to type this one up, but the story below is what happened as I sat down to imagine the mysterious and beautiful life of a migraine.

I hope you enjoy it.

XX,
Jade

AURA

She comes into his life like a comet—a fiery bolt arcing across the skies, haloed and crashing down into the open meadow of his existence. She seems a quiet blip, at first, awakening beneath the sun on a lush bed of grass. She stretches herself out against it, her long, pale body blinding in its innocent beauty. Her fingers clutch the earth as she shimmers in the light, and she sighs at the caress of this world, this new place that surrounds her in warmth.

Instantly, he is drawn to her, knows her otherness and craves it. He takes her in as she begins to bloom, as she shows him that she is, in fact, no innocent at all. She is all curves and smiles, arms that encircle and hold, words of sweetness that tend to him just as he tends to her—but behind her glistening, loving eyes, there is something else. It is furious like the comet she rode in on, unbounded and wild, and it lures him forward in the heated swarm of his mind. It shushes away his fears when she kisses his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, and when she tugs at his clothes and limbs, she draws him further into her sphere.

In the dark of night he invites her to his bed, for though she is unsurpassed in her beauty, it’s her mystery that has him tangled in her. He finds himself beneath her in the light of the moon, his breath stolen as she rocks above. Her hips grind in swirls of chaos, her hands possessing his skin, her kisses speeding his heart. The way she moves sinks into the chasm of his soul. She seeks all of him—not just his length buried within her, but the depths of every crevice of his being, every utterance of his heart, every glimmer of his mind as she writhes against him and his sheets. Her movements become glorious and pained, ripples on the surface of a once-placid lake when the cries spill out from her lips. He sees her then as what she is—nails sharp over him, and teeth cutting his skin in jagged lines. But her whimpers are all he hears, and they seize him in their rock together, taking him beyond every sensation he knew before.

When she collapses over his chest, they lie in silence.

His days are fraught with tension in his efforts to please her. He bathes her, feeds her, loves her through the pinch of her lips and the furrow of her brow. She will not speak, and she moves like a streak of lightning—stubborn and sharp, illuminating their path and yet setting him on edge, pasting goose bumps on his skin like stars against the deep black sky. He thinks, perhaps, the end approaches, that she is sparing them both the hurt to come, soothing the quiet that will fill his life until she falls to the surface of his earth once more.

They dance, this time, before bed. She swings him out in vibrant bursts, then yanks him close. She grasps him so tight his breath slips from inside and out into the vortex of the room. Her heat builds, scorching, suffocating. Blinding. He thinks as they spin, around and around, how much he loves and hates her. How he craves her, needs her. In her laugh he finds the answer to existence, a blurry question that leads to more questions but that, somehow, lets him settle beneath her in the way she commands.

He imagines curving his fingers around her throat, squeezing her away to nothingness—but she has coiled herself around him so tightly, he no longer knows where she ends and he begins.

When she fucks him again, her moans shatter mirrors and rattle pictures off the walls. Her gasps vibrate the room, the bed, the air trapped inside him, stifling in its icy slide against the innermost parts of his lungs. But he is enraptured with the thrust of her hips, with the sweat breaking over his chest when she sucks the tips of his fingers, with the shift of her body over him in the moonlight, even as he feels himself slipping away with her. He is losing his grasp on what is real, what is good, and when she comes, her cries and shudders render him frozen. She keeps arching until he erupts in her, and every last drop of him becomes hers.

He is still when she curls behind him, tucking herself close to his back. Her hands trace over his side, fingertips painting electric currents that circulate in his limbs, up into his face. She kisses his shoulder, then his neck. And though he cannot move, he feels her words when she breathes them into his ear, a shock of sound bursting inside his soul.

“I love you,” she whispers, “and I’ll see you again soon.”

In the morning, he wakes on damp, rumpled sheets. The evidence of their love has scented his skin, and the pillowcase beneath his cheek. He breathes in clean air, his air, and slowly lifts himself from the bed.

She is gone.

Erotic Fiction: “Why”

Posted on September 2, 2015December 29, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

I don’t know why I still want you so badly, but I do.

We are hip to hip, chest to chest, our bodies shifting like pendulums on these rumpled sheets. Your fingers clutch my hair, tugging back my head, exposing my neck to the quick nips of your teeth and the tender glides of your tongue. As you thrust inside, I know this is familiar, this is us, this is what it was—a tight embrace, a heated surrender. You’ve been inside me one hundred, one thousand, one million times. Loving, breaking, and ruining me.

Yet I’ve never stopped wanting you.

Why Image; Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©123RF.com

The air burns with the scent of dwindling candles and our sweat, some of it beading down the sides of your face. You tug on my hair again, forcing me to see you as I always have—a crescent face of hunger, a demanding pine for this. You arch up your hips, searing into me, sinking so deep I cannot help the flit of a groan that spills from my lips as my mind tumbles with the questions I can’t stop asking.

Why do I want you like this? How can I still?

The thoughts are fleeting, shushed away with the sucking sound of your mouth on my neck. You take fevered laps at my skin before you catch my lips and gnaw them, your eyes wide open when you rock me in your lap.

“Baby,” you say.

I tremble atop you, my breasts lifting and falling with our motion, my nipples standing for you. Always for you. Every inch of my flesh burns with desire, and yet dances with goose bumps that remind me of what we are doing, this stolen moment we should never have shared. But to say that is to deny the truth. To pretend I can’t feel the swell of emotion I get from the look in your eyes, the rasp of your tongue, and the way your hands slide down to my waist, pulling me off you and around so abruptly I’m startled to be on my knees. My face presses into these sheets, and your cock is buried in my cunt before I can exhale the desperate puffs of air that have become the only noise I know to make with you.

“Fuck, fuck…” you say, plunging inside. Your hands grip my hips, yanking me back onto you, deeper. Harder. How can you always find me, deeper? Your thrusts grow more violent, hungry and greedy like the wet walls of my cunt that ache for you.

Forever, for you.

I curl my fingers into the sheets. My body is no longer mine. The slam of your pelvis against my ass is so strong the sound is louder than anything—my whimpers, my thoughts, my need for you.

My love.

“Come for me,” you growl, and I hate that you can command me like this. That you’ve recognized the shake of my body, the flush of my skin, the way that, even with you taking like this, I am giving to you. I’m yielding to your thrusts, to the grind of your fingers on my clit like I love, pinching it as you push, and shove, and fill me with everything you have.

When I come, it is with you.

You are so far in I know you’ve reached my soul, and your arms curl around my waist. You press your cheek to my back as we huddle there, quivering. Gasping. I release the sheets, my fingers sore, my body aching from how hard you’ve fucked me. My mind soars, but I am tangled like these sheets, lost in this mystery of us.

We don’t move for seconds. Minutes. It could have been hours. I think we both knew what it was, what it would do to the two of us.

And it isn’t until you steal yourself away, slipping from my bed and into your clothes, that I ask myself again.

Why do I still want you so badly?

Flash Fiction: “A Taste”

Posted on April 29, 2015April 29, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

She’s been waiting her whole life for him, she thinks, and she raises the coffee to her lips.

They’ve been eyeing one another across this diner for the better part of an hour, all while he’s pretended to read his paper and eat his late night bacon and eggs, and she’s forgotten to finish the soup that grew cold not long after she ordered it. She’s been distracted by the rules skipping through her head—don’t stare too much, cross your legs like a lady, don’t forget to eat with your mouth closed—but with the gazes they keep casting back and forth, she doesn’t think these things are really all that important anymore.

Anna pays her check and rises from her booth. She imagines she’ll be the first to leave. That he’ll follow her outside, giving her a moment to reflect on whether he’s stalking her, and if she’s supposed to run. Or if instead she should give away everything she’s actually feeling—the unsteady ticking of her heart inside the safe housing of her chest, the unusual race of her once regulated breathing, or, more than that, the heat that’s slickened at the peak of her thighs, making all this thought a perilous landscape of impossible, inexplicable desire.

But the man is the first to leave. He walks right by her, deliberately meeting her gaze. The brush of his hand on hers cannot be a coincidence, nor the look in his heavy-lidded eyes. And so it’s Anna who follows him outside, Anna who walks in measured steps behind him, Anna who glances up at the stars, just once, reminding herself how small she is in this world as he turns the corner and she’s left to decide one way or another.

Don’t talk to strangers, her mama said.

But mama’s been dead a long time now.

Anna finds him leaning against the backside of the building, staring beyond the edge of the bluff at the water below, where the waves ebb and flow like the surge in her veins. In her head, as she comes to face him, she anticipates the things he might ask of her. What’s your name? Why have you followed me? What are you looking for tonight?

He asks none of this. What he does is take her wrist and pull her to him, so that her breasts are flush with his chest and he’s breathing down over her face. She believes he’s asking for her approval, which she gives in the one kiss they will share—their lips merging, opening, exchanging the bitter trace of coffee, the hint of greasy bacon, and the sweet, sweet taste of spit. His hands are on her ass, molding her flesh, squeezing her closer. She welcomes this, then the way he swings her round to face the building, sliding behind her so his entire body lines her back. Anna gasps when his fingers slip under her skirt, because now he knows just how anxious she’s been for this. For him. Never show a man how much you care she remembers, but his fingers are in her, riding up and hot in the wet desire she doesn’t know how to hide. His teeth find her neck as he wedges her tight to the wall, and Anna’s open mouth grazes the fading building finish. She tongues the wood as he unfastens his pants, then the salty air that kisses her lips and makes her feel alive when he presses his cock to her ass.

“Okay?”

This is the murmur she’ll remember him by, a quiet, desperate groan that elicits the wild bob of her head. We don’t take risks. Good girls don’t take risks she’d been told, but as he drives inside she wants nothing more than to risk it all, again and again. Every thrust of his cock brings another moan, another moment, another physical expression she held buried so far inside. She spreads her fingers on the building and arches her back, letting him sink deeper, closing her eyes while the waves sing behind them and he moves faster inside her. He bites her neck again, surely tasting the glisten of sweat that’s broken out along her chin. Her body shakes when he slides a finger in her mouth and she closes her lips around it, the taste of her cunt on his skin. She’s only partially surprised she comes before he does, her whimpers preceding the muffled grunts he makes into her hair. He fills her with the honest, heated greeting of a perfect stranger.

For a minute, they stand like this, Anna smashed between his body and the building. His come is seeping out around his slowly softening shaft, dripping onto the panties barely pushed aside before he marked her as who she really is. Who she’s wanted to be.

The man places a kiss on the edge of Anna’s mouth. It’s tender and indifferent all at once, but she understands the intention behind it, what he’s learned, too. Thank you.

She is still standing against the wall after he tucks himself away, pausing like he’s supposed to, waiting to see if she wants to say something, or if there’s anything else she needs. But there isn’t.

When he’s gone, Anna spins around, her back to the building as the chaos of her belly becomes a soothing warmth that brings a smile to her face.

She’s never taken a risk before.

And she’s been waiting her whole life for this one.