two centimeters
We cling to each other like the dim salt stains of winter slowly creeping their way up the hem of my pant legs and up and over the toe and upper of her Eskimo-inspired boots. The embrace, now, is just part of the leading edge of that saline line— the chalky crusty white residue that stiffens soft fabric to thick crinkly paper.
There seems to be a menagerie of emotions fitting in the seemingly impossible space between our bodies. There’s an underlying glow of green jealousy, a flash of white hot anger, moody purples of regret, and pale blue sadness. These are glancing shots across naked skin, living and dying in the exhaled air burning out of nostrils flared as we’re bathed now in the deepest crimson of lust.
Hands flat against the small of her back, curving along the rounds of her ass and drawing the contact of bare breasts against my chest by way of her hips first, stomach next, and only after the arching of her back subsides do our mouths meet, and with lips and tongue pulled, tugged, and bitten, I’m emptied of all other thoughts.
There’s enough space, in an instant, to raise my hand up and I’m able to hold my forefinger and thumb two centimeters apart, with her nipple between them, and then press. Squeeze.
Hard.
Hard enough to spring tears; her face wincing at the pain, a retaliatory bite on my lower lip before she gives way, and snaps her head to the side. My mouth slides past her cheek and I taste the trail of salt rolling down. And that’s how it starts.