I felt particularly young in that moment; each centimeter of sugar-spun wallpaper and glossy, white brushed furniture a glaring reminder that for Mr. Tennant, walking into my bedroom was likely on par with stepping into a time machine.
He turned to me, a small twitch forming at the corner of his mouth. A shadow of stubble, sweetly sable eyes, slender fingers curling into fists.
“Take your clothes off,” I told him, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Slowly.”
I leaned back, flipped off the lights, watching him stand with his eyes on my legs and his chest sinking as he took a long breath.
He loosened his tie, pulling it over his head, tossing it aside. His fingers worked against the buttons – one, two, three – the fair plane of his chest exposed as the shirt fell from his shoulders. Where it landed, I didn’t care.
The metal scraping of a belt-buckle, the sliding of leather against leather. Pants buttons unsnapping as the wires in my brain synapsed. Fabric falling, crumpling at his feet.
He stepped out of his shoes, then socks, until he was only in a pair of black boxer-briefs.
I smiled, crawling to the edge of the bedspread and peeling his underwear down; a slow, relieved gasp – like the first breath of air after sitting in a stale room – escaped from between clenched teeth.
He knelt down, and I kissed his open mouth. His tongue grazed over my lips; he kissed my chin, my throat, my clothed chest. One hand cupped my face, the other traced down the chain that hung around his neck; he touched the ring tenderly, as if touching his own heart.
I unzipped the side of my dress, slipping out of it. He undid my bra, tossing it to the floor. I pulled my underwear down, kicking it off with a giggle that was only stifled when Mr. Tennant kissed me again; painful, perfect.
Our hands and fingers explored every curve and crevice; earlobe, inner-thigh, the slope of Mr. Tennant’s spine. My mouth brushed against every bit of skin, tasted the salty tang between his legs and the metallic cuts of aggressive kisses.
He was on his back, his face flushed, utterly boyish and yet entirely a man; every part of him glowed against pale pink satin. I sank inside of him slowly, gaping and gasping, our noses touching, our breath a mixed fog. Our fingers intertwined as I rocked back and forth, watching him unfurl in that beautiful, erotic sense of simply losing yourself in another person. His eyebrows knit, eyelids fell, lips pressed together tightly in a blissful fix. Our grip against one another tightened; I moaned against his chest.
We came together; a fiery explosion of white light. Maybe a part of us died right then; maybe we simply lost another piece of ourselves – a shard of our broken bodies – in one another.
Eyes flickered open; we kissed like school-children, quick and timid.
And I swear, right then, in his arms-

I would have been alright with dying.

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