Why? Because I Love You.

He probed.

She was unsure.

But eventually yielded.

"I love you. You're beautiful."

She wont say it back.

No, scratch that. She can't say it back.

Carefully, very carefully, he tries all he can.

Take two.

One small push and she's all his.

Moving in perfect synchronization of body, of life.

How does she say it? 

Without him getting scared and backing off?

Her mind screams, "I love you! I fucking love you! And I've loved you all this while."

But her mouth stays locked in his.

The words lost in the heat of the moment. Drowned in passion.

"Relax," he says, sensing the urgency and the tenseness in her back.

She lets out a soft moan, as his hands move down, easing out all her apprehensions. 

They shift.

The kisses are different.

His more tearing. Hers, softer. Her hand caressing his face. Obvious love.

"It's funny how it never felt like this when we were together."

"Because when we were together, I was playing my part. The caring boyfriend one."

Muffled gasps. Sharp pain.

"So that was all an act?"

Long drawn sigh.

"Not really. I meant it when I was in it. It's just too taxing for a guy like me."

Unshed tears, distracted by tethering his body, embedding her nails in his arched back. 

Teeth gnawing supple skin.

Red. Color of hurt. Color of passion. Of love.

She strokes his forehead as he slowly moves her hair out of her face to get a closer look.

He doesn't call her beautiful. Something stops him. At the very edge.

But she wants to know. 

Lazy exhaustion. Slower kisses. Wild submission. Acceptance. Denial. Tired.

"Men don't understand, but this is the best part." Contentment.

Really? She wants to ask. Then how do you? Is it just me? Tell me! Talk out loud! 

"You have weird perceptions and estimations about yourself, you know..."

"Like what?"

He snuggles closer. His hand always in motion against her back. He kisses her head discreetly, thinking she can't tell. She can. She can always tell.

"Like this. You think you want this. You're a really good boyfriend for as long as you don't start thinking about it."

"Hmm..." he mutters with his eyes shut. Still holding her close. She doesn't think he realizes that this is the closest they've gotten in a long time. And it's the closest they will be, all bared, in a very, very long time to come.

"You wanna get a smoke?" 

This is it. She doesn't want to let go. She's finally found something comfortable. Comforting. Something that doesn't make her squirm, or jump back in disapproval and skepticism. She was scared she'd find out how irrevocable her feelings were where he was concerned if she ever landed up in something like this. And there you go. She found out. And it hit her so hard, that she doesn't mind not being carefully handled, or not called beautiful, or looked at with a certain kind of deep love only some pair of eyes can show her. For all she cares. Ravage my body. Be harsh yet truthful. Be the asshole my friends have been warning me about. Do exactly this to me, again and again and fucking again. But be mine. In whatever limited and warped form that may be possible.

She studies the marks he gave her on her upper torso, the moment she gets home, and stands in front of the mirror, running her hands smoothly over each one of them. And then slowly turns around to see a slightly different, lonely one at the nape of her neck. She doesn't touch it, but quickly looks away. Thinking of the marks on his body, there's some consolation that he can't do away with them any time soon. She smiles a soulless smile. This is not me. It's not who I am. What am I doing? 

Giving in because you're tired. Somebody answers. Consumed.