RomanceSex

Your Body Was My Holy Ground

I found my church in the passenger seat of your car. I was never one for praying, but the breathless words that escaped my lips when your fingers made their way between my swollen flesh sounded so holy. So divine. I’d pick my favorite pieces and form an altar from your bones; a safe place where I could drop down to my knees and you could teach me how to sin.

Your body was my holy ground. Your moans my prayer. I’d rehearse you over and over again, varying the ways I moved against your body. Switching up the spots I’d place my mouth, little pearly wet droplets forming on your skin from the warmth of my breath. Taking small bites. Then devouring you whole. Feeding a hunger no amount of your body could ever satisfy.

Hidden beneath the darkness of the nighttime sky, illuminated only by the faint sprinkling of stars, the moon that always seemed to shine brighter when we were under it, and the lampposts glowing in the water ahead of us along with the boats we so desperately yearned to escape this reality on, we’d lose ourselves in your car, pausing only to catch our breath and to make sure our secrets remained ours.

Our bodies would move in synchronicity. Like a dance we had endlessly rehearsed until we had bloodied toes and bruised limbs.

Scratch. Pull. Suck. Lick. Kiss. Enter. Choke. Move. Savor. Bite. Grab. Breath. Sweat. Skin. Touch. Movement. Animalistic.

Rough.

Soft.

With you things were easy. With you things were never rushed.

We’d begin our nights at our local coffee shop; that dinky little hole in the wall place that made you believe your life was otherworldly. The air outside was cold, and my hands around my mug never could warm my body quite like you could. A warmth that soaked through me, right down to my bones. An irish olivia and a vanilla chai latte; the sweet before the salty.

Salt.

You were salt. All briny and dehydrating. Like the first sip of a bitter red slipping out of fingerprinted glass and gliding gently, carefully, over your tongue. Not sweet. Not candy. Dave Matthews had it all wrong.

I’d scrunch up my nose at your first initial run in with my tastebuds, and then I’d savor every last drop like it was my last meal. And with your hand wound tightly in my hair you’d pull my head towards yours and our worlds would collide, all tongue and spit and open mouth, until I forgot whose air I was breathing.

Each night would start the same; caffeine jitters and stumbled words.

Each night would end the same; honey dripping down my thighs and onto your tongue.

Sweet.

I was sweet. All pink, sticky, and wet. Like a perfectly ripe summer peach dripping down your chin and trailing its way down your chest.

You’d wear me like a cologne, my scent latching onto your skin the same way my hands would find their way around your neck.

Wanting. Needing. Pulling.

In my mind I’d imagine myself soaking into you. Making my way through your veins until I had been absorbed by every last cell of yours. Like a drug to the vein I’d run my course through your body, leaving just enough of myself behind that my pull would be too strong and you’d get addicted.

And that’s exactly what would happen. Addiction. A yearning for more.

More. That’s what you always wanted.

I grew accustomed to your face between my thighs. It seemed to make its way down there without having to think about the motion of doing so. Like how you could zone out during a long drive and once you got to your destination you’d question how you’d even gotten there at all. Like your body was in one universe and your mind in another.

Our universes had collided though, and there was no telling whose world was whose. You quickly learned your way around my galaxies and I knew exactly what it would take to create a supernova in your bones.

Those 3 little words. That’s all it took.

You’d give in, and I’d inhale you. Like the American Spirits between my fingers. A lit cigarette between your lips. Ashes carried through the wind. A tiny fire reflecting in your eyes. A tiny fire mimicking the one deep down in my bones. All lost breath and a few burnt out matches.

Within each other we found our fix. That thing that got us off. Yet not quite knowing exactly what was going on. Wrapping and unwrapping each other in a veil of caught breaths and sticky fingertips. Dilated pupils. Torn skin.

I’d look into your eyes. Look away. Look back.

You’d catch me in your riptide, and I’d be pulled into a vast sea of tongue and sweat and teeth and fingernails tearing into skin. You tearing into me. For a quick moment the world would stop; an apocalyptic scene where the two of us were the only ones who still had something to hold onto.

A fleeting moment.

Within seconds I’d be brought back to consciousness. Brought back to you. Brought back to the backseat of your car and your weight on top of me. Your lips on my neck. You beginning to flow out of me.

We’d lay there for a few moments. Bodies pulsing. Searching for something beyond foggy windows to gain stability from. Rain droplets creating a symphony on the hood of your car. A slight dripping in the backs of our throats. Sweet. Salty. A delicacy for even the most refined palettes. A top shelf cocktail at a high-end bar.

You’d look at me like my brown eyes were the only thing you’d ever understand in this world. Like that dip right above my collarbone was the only home you’d ever known. Like my body was keeping you breathing. You’d drink me in. Sip. Taste. Swallow. Savor. Sip again. You told me you could get lost in my eyes. You told me you’d fuck me up. You told me you were no good for me.

You’d shut your eyes and make yourself disappear. Turn the world off. Steal every last goddamn star from the sky.

And I’d be left in the dark.

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A twenty-three year old hopeless romantic dreaming of the wilderness. Follow Brianna on Instagram or read more articles from Brianna on Thought Catalog.