It had been a dry summer. Unsettlingly arid, nights were a vacuum of dry mouths and drenched sheets – swallowed up in erotic charge but too sun-tired to fuck.
Every dinner was a picnic, or frozen drinks in the tiny yard of his house. Afterwards, we flooded the patio slabs and giggled at the frying pan hiss and steam.
I sliced away the straps of my cheapest sundress and lay on the grass, dribbling ripe alfonso mango into the creases of my stomach, creating sugary constellations.
Your tongue is hot at the tip, scattering candy stars, fingers ice lolly sweet in my knickers, push the thighs further apart. Teeth on my neck, cunt ice lolly sweet and kiss me.
Too hot though. The grass is wire wool, drying to dust for three weeks’ want of rain. Skin is red and peeling, brown and glistening under a sun which refuses to set, petulantly burning towards us, but kiss me anyway, stay close, with your cheek against mine, your palm resting in the only haven of moisture in this weary town.
The sky is greying, but all I see is your eyes – hazel and flecks of malachite – and the paths of wrinkles I have loved since long before this endless summer.
Teeth on my neck, teeth on my nipple; you kiss my belly, you kiss my thighs and rip the seams of my dress as the sky spits the first cooling drops of summer rain onto our urgent, aching bodies. The hiss on asphalt bares your teeth, and you harden against my thigh, and I bloom, open, pull you closer, reach for you, bursting against my grip.
Kisses are life, electricity. I feel your kiss in my heart, in every blood vessel that carries to the pulse in my cunt and your own rhythm in the hand that holds me, spreads me and sinks deep inside with a sigh.
Unbutton your shirt, let me kiss where your collarbone juts and cologne ebbs away to the scent of you, warm and wild and I bloom and you thicken and the rain is a shower of gentle needles and it is too much to be close but much, much more to be apart and kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. Your mouth. Your hand. Fuck me. You’re perfect. I kiss the stubble along your jaw, fingertips tracing the muscles of your abdomen and downwards to where you hold the shaft steady before me. There is only need here, tightly-wound in blissful relaxation. We need to fuck. I need you inside me. All of a need, and you thrust and I laugh with wide-eyed thrill, just like every other time. Each fuck is a new bud flowering, unknown and exciting even whilst laced with familiarity and my lips slide against your neck, your hand slips against my breast and you slip deeper inside me until I feel myself again, released from the claustrophobic heat into your passion.
When it comes, the downpour shocks the system, bare skin slips and the grasses breathe again, colour, soften beneath our grinding, sticky bodies. Thankful. We take up handfuls of lawn and laugh and shudder as the dust turns to mud beneath us and you swell within me, muddy palms braced at the backs of my knees. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Under the sheet of rain and an opium sky, you roar like thunder, explode like lightning and throb and shudder and I am spent, filled, cleansed and muddied and happy. So happy.