His mouth is on her mind—his warm breath curling through her messy hair to her ears, tickling the space behind, his tongue, thicker than hers, pressing against her lips, begging for entrance.
The darkness of the room engulfed her vision, his large hand caressed her curves, sparking chills along her spine and back down her stomach. Her stomach, twisted with anxiety and anticipation, shot pains through her chest, urging her to leave, get up and run before her legs were too dumbfounded to move. His voice traveled through the bottles that sat on the kitchen table, the ones she didn’t want to have but did, and reached her ear coated with honey. Come on, you know you came here to be bad. Her head pounded against her skull as the room closed in on them, as he closed in on her, and made the final press of his body against hers: the lips to the neck, the hand to the crotch and the grin that she felt creeping along his face.
She muttered the words, though they felt like lies that hanged in the air. She was stiff, unable to move relax think. Everything swarmed in circles, producing an unbearable screeching only she heard. He kept speaking words she couldn’t decipher over the noise, and as he pressed his chest to hers, the room began to spin quicker, threatening to bring up every thought in her stomach. The heat became intolerable as he peeled the layers from her skin, kicking her ankles while removing her bottoms. The pinching of his zipper pressed against her bare thigh, his breathe–the scent of summer and the breeze of leaves beginning to die, the light from the kitchen hitting him at just the right angle. His weight suffocated her, she felt her face flush, and out of nowhere, she spoke:
I… I’m sorry.
The words are too late, though, and he has blown away like the seasons on his tongue.