My nose pressed against leather.
A mix of rain, wet cotton and the smell of his skin filled me.
I shivered in his arms as the elevator climbed to his apartment.
Years of acting like the scream in my stomach every time I saw him did not exist were finally over. All the lies. The times I looked at a stranger in the mirror because I saw him instead of my husband when he made love to me.
It all pooled at my feet with the water that dripped from us.
Sometimes running was the best option, if it led to this. To him.
He held me in his arms like I was slipping from him, afraid this was only a dream.
His heartbeat throbbed against my cheek as the dark city disappeared below us.
The elevator slowed and suddenly I was being pulled upwards, my feet lifting off the ground so that he could press his mouth to mine. I cried out at his touch, overwhelmed, needing him to make me forget, heal, cry, through the pain. I wrapped my thighs around him and he lifted me further, one hand gripping the nape of my neck, the other cradling my weight.
His kiss was pleading, tender, and vicious. Everything we had done to stay apart had shattered, and we were diving headfirst into the destruction.
He bit my lip, I bit his.
I hoped he would make me bleed.
The journey from the elevator was a blur of flickering fluorescent lights.
With a crash, we banged into the scratched veneer of his apartment door.
He shuddered against my lips while frantically turning the key.
The door slammed behind us, and we were enveloped in darkness. Suddenly I was falling, his body crushing mine against a bed, the sheets smelling of sandalwood and him.
We gasped between kisses, the addiction taking hold.
Everything was heat, and want, regret, and guilt. Maybe hope.
I could think of nothing but his body, our need to fuck and consume.