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It’s dark, save the light of a single candle. She can hear the ocean outside her window, the gentle crash as it reaches the shore, the way it whispers to her, calls to her. She can feel the ocean, too, in the rise and fall of his chest, in the way his forehead is pressed to hers, in the way his hands are on her, pulling her closer.
A soft breeze blows through the window, the flame of a candle dancing, casting flickering shadows across them. Languor is thick in the air, mixing with their breathing, emotions left lingering between them.
His breath smells like grapes, like the wine they shared when his arms were around her, warm water embracing them and dimmed bathroom lights shrouding them in muted light. His lips had pressed unspoken declarations into her skin, his hands burning with clandestinity.
It’s not unlike now, not unlike how his hands are touching her, filling her with a sense of incandescence. His green eyes glow brighter in the candlelight, shining with alacrity, yet his movements are amble, indolent
Their eyes meet, and she’s struck by how crazy this is, how crazy they are. This was never meant to last, never meant to blossom into the affair it did, but months have passed and they still find themselves waking in each other’s arms. Jumping into the ocean that separated their worlds was the easy part; navigating the road they’re traveling is harder.
It wasn’t as though she wasn’t warned—he had warned her plenty—but she finds herself willing to forge ahead, to push the limits, to get lost in the world he opened for her. She’s led by blind faith—maybe born of curiosity, maybe of admiration, but she takes his hand and lets him guide her further.
He kisses her, lips dripping with saccharine promises. He kisses her, and she thinks she understands why entire temples were built in his name.
He’s made of religion, yet he worships her. His hands make alters of her body like she’s something sacred, something to be revered. He whispers prayers into her neck, her chest, her hips, turning her into a goddess if only for a moment, if only to him.
There’s a part of her that thinks— hopes —they might just get away with it, despite the flutter in her stomach and the pink stick stashed in her top drawer. But the reality is that their love is a summer fling that went too far, that persisted even as the golden light of summer bled into the leaves of autumn. It’s an ephemeral false god hiding behind a shield of ethereality, and it wasn’t born with permanence in its plan.
She brings a hand up to his face, brushing her thumb along his cheek.
“We’re crazy,” she whispers.
She doesn’t say why, but he knows. He knows.
The corners of his lips twitch up slightly.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t think so.”
They lean in slowly, and then his lips are moving gently against hers, and any doubt she has melts away until all she feels is bliss.
She threads her fingers through his hair and he smiles at her, and her heart skips a beat.
It’s stupid to hope, she knows, but when he looks at her like she’s his cynosure, she can’t help but feel like this is only the beginning.
“Good.”