Always Like This

Author’s Note: One shot. I love one shots. Short, sexy, introspective, a little angsty, and in present tense! Really, now; can it get any better?

Always she feels that heady rush of power when they are alone like this, tangled together in a slippery mess of limbs and sheets and open clothing. She catches his strong jaw in her small, bony hands and kisses him ferociously, arching up into a half-sitting position from trapped under his heavy body to drive her tongue and lips and mouth against his.

She loves him, so vibrantly, so desperately, so completely, she feels as though her soul has no room for anything else. It has always been like this. He is not just a man; he is a presence, a force of nature, an abstraction of passions and feelings and actions. There is no one, has never been anyone, like he. Bigger than life, he is; there is so much of him that he simply consumes her whole being to the point that there is sometimes not even room for her own self. There was a time when this phenomenon, unique to He-That-is-Tsukasa Domyoji, made her feel like she was suffocating. He was the uninvited conqueror and Tsukushi Makino, always so independent, violently rebelled.

Now she has learned how to absorb his id into herself, or perhaps she has learned to melt into his. She doesn’t know for sure in which way the situation has resolved itself and now is not the time to mull it over. All she knows is the fire he ignites against her skin with his long, deft fingertips and large, warm palms, the quiver and contraction of her every muscle as they anticipate the pleasure of his touch, and the ever present wonder that she is the one to make him tremble and groan, this imperious, unbreakable, haughty man.

He pulls the open blouse off her slim shoulders and murmurs into the delicate swell of her breast how much he loves her, how badly he wants her, now, always, forever. His thumbs rub her nipples into tight, aching peaks through her bra, making her whimper into his open mouth as he moves to kiss her again. Her fingers clench into his solid shoulders and she lifts her hips enticingly, pressing up against the bulge in his trousers. He growls, doesn’t she ever have any patience? She rarely does. She has other parts that demand attention, and she always wants the most direct route to the end result that her body craves.

Sometimes he lets her control the pace, awed as he is that he finally has her, that she at long last wants him as fervently and kinetically as he has always wanted her, fascinated by every arch and convulsion of her bare body, the stuff once only of his most vivid dreams, as her nails rake his back and she begs him by name to do things to her that he alone can do. He likes it when she begs, when she pleads and calls his name. There was a time when he tried so hard to make her admit that she loved him, that she wanted him. It had been maddening, knowing he was right about her feelings for him, but having her consistently deny him the proof they both needed. He knew he loved her so much sooner than she knew she loved him, but then his emotions have always been so much simpler to put into words and actions than hers will ever be. Now her every cry is a sweet triumph for him in it of itself.

She relishes every moan and shudder that she can pull from him, in part for the feeling of divine power it gives her and in part for the pleasure she knows she makes him experience. He has similar opinions, though, and while they both aren’t about to complain about the other’s sexual skills – good god, no! - there is a struggle for dominance every time they make love. This time, as she is the more impatient, he is in a position to make her wait, and make her wait he does. He brings her to the edge again and again with his mouth, hands, and body without letting her go, until finally, their bodies wrapped about each others without a stitch of clothing left, he sends her into a spectacular climax that he follows with his own. In the aftermath, as they still hold each other tightly, their panting slowly calming, she cups the side of his face with her hand and whispers that she loves him. He knows she does, of course, always has known, but he can never hear the words enough times.

Theirs wasn’t standard courtship, one in which girl and boy meet in satisfactory mutual attraction and slowly learn to love each other as a relationship is developed. In this, Tsukushi is infinitely more fortunate and more precious than other girls, because she knows Tsukasa could never have loved someone else who might have been conveniently available.

It always had to be her.