Endless Nights of Full Moon

Zero One

His POV

Another Friday night comes around and with it the promise of another set of eyes. Another silverware and another glass.

Only this time, they will be eyes that I have seen before.

Wide brown eyes filled with promise and sparkling with intelligence. Eyes that seem to see through me instead of past me and my stuttering mess.

They are eyes that I have seen every night, the entire week-long in my dreams.

Especially in the hours spent lying hot and lonely on my bed, my desperate arousal in my hands.

Stroking.

Needing.

Unfulfilled. Even when coming.

When it is finally time, I take the stairs down from my apartment with anticipation instead of dread.

And that, in itself, is a revelation.

As I drive, I think about the awkward rumblings in my stomach when I finally called her, the sweaty aches and my usual uncertainty about speaking on the phone only amplified by everything else.

I remember her voice.

And her laugh.

And her eyes.

With her resounding voice echoing in my head, I pull my car up outside her apartment. I need to concentrate just to keep from crashing as I do because there is too much need inside my hands, too much quivering want squeezing thickly at my chest.

She is there.

With hair the color of autumn after a storm, she stands in casual stillness against her entryway, her body both relaxed and poised. I can tell she sees me when the obscene line of her mouth tilts upward, mischief and mystery dallying equally in her eyes.

I open the door and slip from my seat, my feet making dull sounds against the pavement as I propel myself toward her side of the car, moving more smoothly than I would have expected to be able to, given my body's tortured response. The promise of connection, both physical and intellectual, has me throbbing and on edge, too much clumsiness in hands that long to touch as they reach feebly for the passenger's side door.

But then I am whirling, my body spun. She pins both my hands to the side of the car, my back arched against it and I am melting into the honeyed power of her breathing, gasping kiss.

"Soraya," I moan, and I am rewarded with her tongue which begs for silence.

Which commands it.

And the thought of her commanding me to do anything makes me so f*****g hard.

She pulls away with a wicked smirk, those brown eyes sparkling.

"Been waiting for that all week," she whispers, before rising up on tiptoes to kiss my nose, and I am utterly bewitched.

"Me, too," I pant, and it is with a foreign twitching of the muscles in my cheek as I widely smile.

***

Over the course of the evening, she talks about nothing and everything. What might have been dull details when explained by a stranger with bubble gum lips become the focus of my being when they are offered by Soraya. She tells me about her favorite color and her family and the stories that flow freely from her hands.

I drink it all up, nodding and stuttering, asking questions where I can, and trying desperately not to freeze up with self-conscious indecision when she reciprocates the act, posing queries of her own. Beside the smooth richness of her voice, offered generously and without reservation, my own twitching, stilted words sound all the worse and were it not for her smile, I would have crumbled in shame and run by now.

If my own quiet twitching and my silences annoy her, she does not betray that feeling, her voice more than compensating for my lack of one through our entrees and on into dessert.

When she orders for us, requesting one cake and two spoons, I c**k an eyebrow, but she is warmly dismissive.

"You know you want some," she says.

I do.

"What if I'd w-wanted my own?" I manage to stammer, and she laughs.

"You're a big boy." She is speaking over the rim of her glass, her tongue darting out to touch the rim. "You can share."

And I can.

Even though there are two spoons, she takes them both, and with a sure hand and a devilish smile, she feeds me, giving me only as much as she sees fit.

I lick up every crumb.

With my eyes, I tell her that I would gratefully devour whatever she would give.

***

We walk the pier that night, and she is a vision with the sea breeze ruffling wildly through her hair. Slowly, so gradually, she begins to turn the tables, asking more and more probing questions, until eventually, I begin to push past my stuttering and through the iron locks around my head.

I tell her about my brother and his perfect life and wife. About my parents who love each other and who tried to love me.

But as an object of love, I have always failed.

Even with the people who gave birth to me.

"I'm sure they miss you," she breathes after I explain that years have passed since we have spoken more than casually and that my brother only calls to tell me he's set me up on another date.

I shrug because this is hard to talk about.

I push away the people who would get too close to me, at the same time that I wish they would only hold me closer.

It's simply what I do.

As if she senses all the ways I am inclined to push, it is at that moment that she reaches for my hand.

With it, she pulls me toward her.

For once, I can't run or push, for I am held too tightly within her grasp.

And her grasp, while terrifying, feels like safety.

***

Pulling up in front of her apartment, I am drained and full, glowing and satisfied and basking in connection. Trying to process what it means to speak to another human being this way. Skin cells ripple, near-choking with the devastating pleasure of even a simple willing touch.

And yet I still want more.

Trying to hold back a desperate plea for her to invite me up and take my body and my need to her bed, I turn in my seat to find her already there. She is closeness and hot breath, brown eyes telling me exactly what she has already decided to do without even a hint of an intention to request permission.

Bridging the space between us, I feel another person's hands in the wreck that is my hair, scratching roughly at my scalp as plump lips settle on my own, teeth ripping at imperfect flesh, and I groan. Her body settles over mine, warm thighs on either side of my lonesome hips, her chest a pressure that pushes all the air out of my lungs and replaces it with lust and uncertainty.

We are twisting and grappling in the driver's seat of my car, elbows bumping and my knees pinned by the gas pedal and the steering wheel. I wonder briefly if she is an exhibitionist, choosing to all but mount me first in her doorway and now in the street, but I decide she can have me wherever she wants me so long as she keeps touching me.

And as long as she knows what she's doing.

"God, Soraya, are you ... d-do you … here?" I ask in a haze between pulsing kisses.

She slides her mouth to my ear, burning across my jaw.

"You don't want me," she hisses, her hips lifting up and breaking contact with my c**k and I let loose a tortured plea of a snarl.

It's not a question. Not some moment of insecurity or self-doubt.

It's a challenge.

It's her calling me out.

"I w-want you." The weakness of my voice disgusts me. Sniveling. Whimpering.

"Tell me," she breathes.

And then she bites me.

"f**k," I pant, my hips lifting up into her, a barely glancing touch against the space between her thighs before she pulls away, even more, her hands hard and holding the tops of my legs down.

"Tell me."

"I want you," I rasp. "So f*****g b-bad."

The long lick down the tendon of my neck makes me spasm.

"More."

I swallow and close my eyes, but her hand is beneath my chin, nails gripping at flesh and forcing my gaze to hers. A shiver ripples through my overheated body and my too-tense nerves and I'm so hard for her, f*****g aching, and I don't know if I've ever wanted anything so badly.

Especially because I know in the frustrated, disappointed core of my heart that I can't have it.

That she won't let me unless I become something I'm not.

"W-words," I mumble, my gaze drifting to the obvious line of my erection pushing hard and painfully against my jeans. "I c-can't."

Her eyes are warm.

"You can."

I gulp. I pause.

I throb.

My parched lips part and I lick at them as if that moisture will lubricate my words.

Or her s*x.

"f**k," I curse again, pushing her hand away and letting my forehead fall to the soft heaven of her chest as I try to talk. Try and fail. Try and fail.

Failure.

Try.

"I w-want you," I mumble into her breast, softness, and warmth and she's so, so close. I want to use the tender flesh as a gag, to keep my mind and body safe from the disaster that is my speech.

But I can't.

She hasn't told me yet that I can.

"How?" she breathes.

"I want - I want to b-be inside you," I start again, cringing against my own feeble rush, but she moans, her breath so hot in my ear and I try to be bold, but I'm still a stammering, stuttering mess. "I want you to f**k me and t-t-take me. To touch me. I want to touch you and f**k you, and I'm scared you w-won't even want to k-kiss me now."

My eyes are clenched closed and I'm breathing hard, f*****g terrified and raw, and I realize all at once I've said far too much.

"Davien." There's the pressure on my neck again. Fingertips forcing me up and I can barely look to see her and to know she's disappointed or disgusted by me. She whispers softly then, "Davien, I will."

And she does.