‘O God, make me good, but not yet.’
– Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
I love walking away from him. I love that when I do, I can already feel the ache creeping into my back and legs that will remind me tomorrow of how I was fucked hard today. I can still feel the damp stickiness between my thighs. I may have been satisfied over and over, but I can never get enough of him and the slick friction keeps me wet in memory of what we have done.
I know that I look like a mess. Despite brushing it out with my fingers, my hair is tangled and in disarray. I’m not wearing any make-up anymore, it’s all been spread over his sheets and his skin. I feel like I’m beyond tousled and drifting into scruffy.
My mind is still in his bed, still in his arms. Images flash in front of my eyes and I stumble at their intensity. The touch of his hands and lips have burnt my skin, and I am amazed that no one can see the marks. I’m certain that every stranger who smiles at me knows the truth, knows why I am shining…but I don’t care. I’m walking on air.