Chapter one. WHERE THE SILENCE TOUCHES ME.
CHAPTER ONE.
“Where the Silence Touches Me”
The room was quiet now, too quiet. Not peaceful, not safe. The air rang with the kind of silence that follows a scream. Sheets tangled around my bare legs, still damp with sweat, the scent of him thick in the room…..salty and male.
He’d been here. I could still feel the hard press of his hips against mine, the way he moved like worship and war. The way he looked at me, gazed through me, into me, with a desire that made my thighs tighten and my chest ache. Reverent. Ravenous. Like I was both altar and offering.
“Do you like that?” He’d whispered it like a hymn, voice low and splintered with hunger. That question had never sounded like that before, until I met him. Like surrender. Like sin.
I hadn’t meant to let him in. Not at first.
I was lying in bed, fingering the edge of sleep, when I saw a shadow in the room. Then he was there, his skin glowing faint and wrong in the soft glow of the moonlight, eyes dark and knowing. He didn’t knock, we were already connected long before he showed himself to me, so he didn’t need to, it was his space, it belonged to him.
He kissed me before he spoke. Tongue soft but urgent, tasting of longing. He touched me like he’d been memorizing my entire being his whole life. Like he knew where every nerve ending under my skin lived.
The first night, I let him in entirely, scared but willing, I almost cried when he moved inside me. Not from pain. Not from joy. From recognition. From the shock of being seen and broken apart in the same breath.
“You smell good,” he murmured afterward, tracing my lips with his fingers
Those same fingers that made me scream his name with pleasure and want. Those same fingers that traced every part of my being trailing promises of undeniable pleasure and sin.
Day after day. Night after night. He touched me like scripture, slow and aching, reading every line of my body with his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his breath. He asked questions. Always left marks. And I always felt flushed as though every part of me was brimming with each orgasm, each whispered vow.
I was beginning to feel something for him. And truthfully, it was scary…..felt more like an obsession. His eyes, dark and wanting always a reminder that he could take me to places just with a touch. This only made whatever it was that I felt more intense…..more toxic.
It wasn’t love, not the kind people write about in poems or cry over in songs. It was deeper, darker. Like he had sunk his fingers into something buried inside me and dragged it into the light. He made me feel seen… and exposed. Like I was both a masterpiece and a mess in his hands.
When he kissed me, everything else vanished. My body became myth beneath his touch…..my moans like hymns, my thighs trembling against his shoulders as he worshiped me with his hands, and his shaft waged a winning war inside me, relentless and precise. He made me sinfully appreciative.
He was the flame and I was the moth, dancing closer even as my wings burned Every second with him felt like standing on the edge of something beautiful and destructive, and I didn’t know if I wanted to fall… or be pushed.
Maybe that’s what scared me the most.
Not the depth of what I was feeling.
But the fact that I didn’t want to stop.
One night, I caught my reflection watching me.
The mirror didn’t blink.
It started slow. My reflection lingering, lips still parted long after I had closed them. A finger still caressing my breast after I’d pulled the sheet up. Once, I saw his hands wrapped around my waist in the glass……though I was alone.
Or thought I was.
“Why do you look for me there?” he asked, curling behind me in bed, his voice breathy against my ear. “I’m not in the mirror. I’m in you.”
I never screamed. Not even when he disappeared mid-sentence, leaving my body aching, and my womanhood soaked in streams of my want.
Trisha?.....who are you talking to?
My mom’s voice would ring down the passage to my room…..concerned….maybe?
“You need to go out more you know….you need to come to church with me.”
I hated going out….
Out there was colorless. Empty. Too loud in all the wrong ways. But in here, he was stillness and heat. Salt, and the scent of his Male hormones and wants. He kissed me like he wanted me to never forget. f****d me like he was made for it. Our bodies moved like a ritual, like a waltz…..harmony, symphony, my cries muffled against his throat, his name a cord of sanity to hold onto
I no longer knew where my skin ended and his began.
But something changed. Slowly. Subtly. His eyes lingered longer. His touch grew hungrier, less reverent. He no longer just held me, he gripped. Possessive. Starving.
“I want to disappear with you” I whispered to him one night, as I lay spent in the ruins of our pleasure. “I want to finally belong to you”
And then he said those words….. words that put me in the position to make a decision, a drastic one.
When my mom finally came home, the bathroom door was locked from the inside. But she eventually forced it open…..the door had always been weak anyway.
The bathtub was full with water, a new born baby in it, lifeless, floating at the surface.
I knew what I had done, but I didn’t care, couldn’t feel a thing.
Just like always, I had been rejected….
But….
It was worse this time, I had eaten from the infamous apple of good and evil, pleasure and pain…….
And there was no going or coming back from that.
My mom stood there, tears rolling down her cheeks, I didn’t care….
I wanted him….
I had tried calling him, connecting with him as usual, but he ignored me entirely.
He was mad….
I could tell….
I didn’t care…..
I just wanted him.
I still want him.
