Into The Woods

Middle of the night. A cool breeze stirs the leaves. The moon hangs bright and full. We drive the long dirt road deeper into the trees until the world falls away. You have a truck. In the bed we spread a blanket; battery powered rice lights trace the edges like soft constellations. You have brought my favorite wine and two glasses. The care in it undoes me.

I lie in the truck bed in a dress that stops mid thigh and clings where it should. I think of every way I will thank you for this for the attention, for refusing to let it be merely a hurried fuck beneath the trees. I could have that with anyone. I do not want anyone. I want you.

Your broad shoulders. The brown-and-grey hair that falls just so. The perpetual five-o’clock shadow kept somehow perfect. Ocean blue eyes that unmake me every time they find mine. Lips made for kissing, and used with devastating skill.

And the cock yes, I will say it the most beautiful I have ever known. Nothing else compares. Nothing ever will.

I know this is not your natural terrain. I know you have stepped outside yourself to give me this cliché, this fantasy. You always do. Even when my desires strike you as strange or dull or simply not your own, you find a way to make them real, exactly as I saw them in the dark of my mind.

You sit with one arm propped on a raised knee, wineglass in hand, gazing at the moon fractured through the branches. Calm. Composed. I envy that stillness more than I can say the way you remain collected in any weather. It is part of your gravity, your quiet grandeur.

We come from separate worlds. Yours is polished, intact. Mine is worn and fracturing. I have never belonged in yours, nor you in mine. Yet we keep colliding, night after night. I am afraid that one of these collisions will finally be the one that shatters both.

I force the thought away. You have gone to this trouble for me. This is my fantasy. I mean to inhabit it fully to store every second rather than spoil it with visions of mutual ruin.

Who am I kidding? Every moment with you is already archived under Remember Until the End of Time. I have been smitten since the first time you pushed that perfect cock inside me. Since the first time you looked at me the way no man ever had the look that makes a woman feel like the single most necessary thing alive. Wanted. Desired. Breathless.

Perhaps you give that look to every woman. Perhaps you have simply perfected the art of making each one feel like a million dollars. In this moment I do not care.

I drag myself out of the spiral and back into the present.
You are still as you were. Sipping wine, listening to the tree frogs. Fireflies drift around us like slow sparks.

Perfect.

The whole scene is perfect. You have outdone yourself. I hope, later, when you are alone, you allow yourself at least a small measure of pride.

It will be nothing compared to what I intend to give you.

You turn those eyes on me, reading my reaction. I meet them and smile.
“Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome.”

I take the glass from your hand and set it carefully on the tailgate. Our gazes never break. I slip the dress over my head, revealing black lace. Still watching you, I crawl forward on hands and knees, back arched, a wicked smile already forming.

The things I mean to do to you.

When the space between us closes, your hand comes up to cup my face. You kiss me with those soft, practiced lips the same lips that have mapped every inch of my skin, that have whispered into the hollow of my ear, that have sent the two words I wait for late at night: Doors open.

I think, It cannot get better than this.

It does.

Your other hand finds me, cups me firmly, gently. A soft sound escapes my throat.
Your mouth travels to the nape of my neck; your breath lingers there, warm and deliberate. You know exactly what it does to me. Then lower across my chest, the bra discarded with one handed ease. Your to