Twist

This was my first entry in Alison Tayler‘s Smut Marathon – and it won! I hope you like it, too. – M

“Now, turn around and face me.”

I used to think I loved your smile. I used to think another was the curve of your hip; still another the smooth sweep of your thigh. But all those things are static.

“Don’t stop looking at my face. Don’t pay attention to where my eyes go, or my hands, or anything else. Eyes on my face.”

A photograph’s smile is frozen. An image’s curve brittle. I realized, not so very long ago, that I could not love such unmoving, dead things, no matter how pretty.

“Open your legs. Wider. Yes. And bend your knees. More. Yes.”

What I love, the thing I love about you is that you are alive like nothing and no one I’ve known. To watch you changing as your legs move against the sheets.

“Now, hold still.”

I’m lying. I want you not to hold still – not to be able to hold still. I want that smile on your face to twist into a wry, knowing grin, or contort into an open-mouthed expression of passion. I want to feel your hip turn and slide under me, as I settle between your thighs. I want to take your knees in my hands, press them up and wide and open as your eyes widen and open on mine.

The twist. It is what I love. Your lips turning; your back arching; your hands grabbing and wrinkling the sheets. It is what I need from you.

“Beautiful.”

And, oh, how you give.