I Love Elliott

Sand slithers over the tops of your shoes and burdens every step towards the beach house. The shore is trying to root you down and hold you back, but the man inside is a beckoning siren. You’ve been okay so far, but every visit tests your luck, and you know what sirens do to those they call.

For a man of many words, Elliott doesn’t waste time speaking when you force the creaky old door inwards and the sand makes its last attempt to save you by sliding in past the threshold.

His hands fit to your jaw, and his mouth smothers yours, and you’re burning. Nothing can help me now, you think, sweeping your tongue desperately against his lips and carding your fingers into his hair. Your body forgets your biology for a moment, and you think you can only survive on air from Elliott’s lungs.

Then his lips detach from yours and rove down your jaw, and it’s a revelation that you’re able to breathe. “I’ve been aching for you,” he purrs against the shell of your ear, slipping your jacket off your shoulders with such efficiency you don’t think you could do it better yourself. A line like that would feel disingenuous from anyone but Elliott.

He’s ached for you in the same way you have for him.

It shows in the greedy, reverent sweeps of his hands over your body. Beneath your shirt and up your stomach, down your back, under your breasts. He’s everywhere. Smothering you in the best way possible, like the high you get when you’ve been deprived of oxygen for a moment too long.

“Delectable,” he says when he has you out of your clothes, not bothering to pretend he isn’t ogling you. A shiver traces your spine. Your nipples harden.

“Please,” your voice is raspy, parched. What are you begging for, really? His kiss, his touch?

Or are you begging him to get it over with and drown you already? It’s hard to know.

Elliott decides you’ve earned his touch, his kiss, his cock. The fill of him inside of you is bittersweet. It’s a sigh of relief, and it’s so utterly right you can’t stand the thought that it’ll be over again.

He calls you so many things. Gorgeous, darling, my sweet—you have all of his flowering pet names tattooed on your heart. The names that he only ever uses in bed, even though you’d give anything to hear them otherwise. Every time you break your own heart and stitch it back together, they warp further, and hearing them becomes that much more painful.

You’re coming and it’s heaven, and he’s coming and it’s even better. When he spends himself inside you it’s devastatingly intimate. It’s all praises and your name and thank you’s and never I love you. Never don’t leave me, never we have to stop doing this.

When you cry afterwards Elliott doesn’t ask you what’s wrong. But he does hold you tighter, and brush your hair, and use his thumbs to sweep the tears away. Now that it’s over, he doesn’t kiss you again.

He’s somber, too, and it dampens the room more than the humid sea-air. This thing between you is addicting, and it’s barbed, and it’s the light that gives you life, and it’s the fire that burns you.

Once your tears expire, you force yourself to rise. Elliott’s out of words again, and you never had any to start with, so the room is an orchestra of regret as you put your clothes back on. You’re leaving, because you don’t spend the night even though his bed is soft and familiar. And you’re wearing your own clothes, because you don’t steal his even though you want his scent pressed into your skin. Those are the rules, the ones you’ve made to protect what little of yourself is left.

You reach for the doorknob. You hesitate.

And you look back at Elliott because you don’t know if you can muster the words to say goodbye another time. If you speak, you’re afraid that you’ll tell him you’re in love with him. You’re afraid that you’ll tell him you can’t do this anymore.

Elliott opens his mouth. He hesitates.

It looks like you’re right—both of you have nothing you can say. You rip off the bandaid and open the door, and the sand guides you back to solid ground.