Emersyn

We arrive back at the house, the quiet inside a stark contrast to the buzz of the wedding. The evening's events play back in my mind like a movie reel, each moment etched in vivid color and emotion. My heels click against the hardwood floor as I walk in, the sound magnified in the silence.

"Thanks for coming with me, Marx. It made the day a lot easier," I say, looking up at him.

He smiles warmly. "Don't mention it."

I nod, returning his smile, but my thoughts are racing. Every glance, every touch from tonight, lingers in my mind.

With one final glance between us, I head to my room. I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, exhaling deeply. I walk over to my dresser and begin taking off my jewelry, setting each piece down with a soft clink. Then I reach for the zipper on the back of my dress, but it won't budge. I try again, pulling and tugging, but it's stuck.

A wave of frustration washes over me. The last thing I want to do is ask Marx for help. The thought of his hands on my zipper, his fingers brushing against my skin, sends a mix of anticipation and trepidation coursing through me.

I walk out of my room, my bare feet padding softly against the wood. As I reach the living room, I find Marx still there, standing by the window, staring out into the night. He turns at the sound of my footsteps, and our eyes lock.

"Do you, um, mind helping me?" I stammer, my voice tinged with embarrassment and something else—something that feels dangerously like desire. "My zipper is stuck."

He looks at me for a moment that feels like an eternity, then slowly walks over. "Of course," he says, his voice low.

I turn around, my back to him, and suddenly, I'm acutely aware of every inch of space between us. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, can smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the night air. My heart is pounding so loudly I'm sure he can hear it.

I feel his fingers lightly touch the fabric of my dress, right above the stubborn zipper. A shiver runs down my spine, electric and intense. He starts to pull the zipper down, and his fingertips brush against the bare skin of my back. Heat courses through my body, centered where his skin meets mine. It's as if a circuit has been completed, filling me with a current of raw emotion.

The zipper gives way, finally, and he slides it all the way down. But his hands linger for just a second longer than necessary, resting gently on my lower back. It's a touch so subtle yet so charged, it leaves me breathless.

"Thank you," I whisper, not trusting myself to say more.

"You're welcome," he replies, his voice equally soft.

I walk back to my room, my mind a whirl of thoughts and feelings that I don't yet know how to process.

As I step into my room and close the door behind me, I press my back against the wood, my thoughts a hurricane. The silence in the room is almost deafening, punctuated only by the sound of my own heartbeat drumming in my ears. How is it possible that a simple gesture, a mere unzip of a dress, could open up a chasm of emotions I'm not ready to dive into?

The air in the room feels thick, as if charged with the electricity that just passed between Marx and me. I walk over to my bed and sit down, the fabric of my dress pooling around me, its zipper now fully undone.

My hands are trembling as I pull the dress off my shoulders, letting it slide down to my waist and then onto the floor. I step out of it, my feet sinking into the soft carpet. I feel almost exposed, even though I'm alone in my room. The space around me feels different—like it's holding onto the memory of Marx's touch, the heat of it still imprinted on my skin.

Slipping into an oversized t-shirt feels like a slow return to reality. The material is soft and cool, a stark contrast to the charged air just moments before. I fold my dress neatly and set it on a chair, but even as I do, the fabric seems to whisper secrets, reminding me of the way Marx's fingers felt against my back.

I take a deep breath, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Turning off the lights, I crawl into bed, the sheets cool and inviting. But even as I close my eyes, the darkness is filled with flashes of the evening—the look in Marx's eyes, the brief touch of our hands, the lingering warmth of his fingertips on my back.

Sleep seems elusive. My mind refuses to quiet down, replaying the night's events in vivid detail. I toss and turn for hours, the sheets tangling around my legs as if mirroring the complexity of my thoughts. Finally, I give up on sleep and sit up, pulling my knees to my chest.

I glance at the clock. It's late. The house is quiet, my breathing loud in my room.

Thirst strikes me suddenly, as if my body is trying to distract me from the torrent of emotions I'm wading through. I contemplate for a moment, then decide to get a glass of water. Slipping out of bed, I pad softly across the room and open the door, stepping into the dimly lit hallway.

The house is dark, but I know my way. The hardwood floor feels cool under my feet as I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. As I round the corner, a flicker of movement catches my eye. I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat.

Marx is there, sitting at the kitchen table, shrouded in darkness. The outline of a beer bottle is just visible in his hand.

"You scared me," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing sitting in the dark?"

He doesn't answer. The silence stretches, becoming almost palpable. I turn away, walking to the sink. I take a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water, my back to Marx. The sound of the water rushing into the glass seems to amplify the tension in the room, a counterpoint to the heavy silence.

When I turn back around, he's right behind me. The proximity is startling, and my cup almost slips from my grip. His hand reaches up to cup my face, the pad of his thumb rough against my cheek. I close my eyes for a moment, my body instinctively pressing into his touch. It's as though my skin has been craving this contact, and now that it's here, every nerve ending is firing in response.

I open my eyes and look up at him. What I see steals the breath from my lungs. His eyes are dark, filled with a lust that's pure, unfiltered, and directed solely at me. It's a look that says he's not just seeing me, but feeling me, as if he's diving into the very core of my being.

Without warning, his grip shifts to my hips. He lifts me up as if I weigh nothing, setting me down on the kitchen counter. The suddenness of the move, the sureness of his grip, sends a thrill of excitement coursing through me.

My legs instinctively part to make room for him, and he steps closer, the space between us now nonexistent. I can feel the hardness of his body against mine, a solid wall of muscle and desire. My hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping them as if they're the only stable things in a world that's spinning out of control.

We're at a precipice, a moment where everything can change, where lines can be crossed and walls can come crashing down. The tension is almost unbearable, a tightrope we're both walking, but it's a walk neither of us can turn back from.

His lips are close, so close, and I find myself leaning in, drawn to him like a magnet. I'm aching for the contact, yearning to close that last millimeter of space between us.

I want to know how he'll kiss me. Would it be soft and sweet? Or rough and needy? How will he taste?

But before I can kiss him, he moves his face to the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply, as if scenting me. A low, primal noise rises from his throat.

The sound vibrates through me, igniting something deep within my core. It's a sound of want, of need—a sound that seems to say I am his focus, his center, if only for this fleeting moment.

"Marx," I whisper, unsure of what to say but feeling like his name is the only word that can encapsulate the whirlwind of emotions inside me.

My heart is pounding, the rhythm matching the rapid beat of his own. It's as if our bodies are in sync, attuned to the same frequency, caught in the same gravitational pull.

His tongue darts out, licking my neck. I squirm where I sit on the counter, heat building between my legs. I am on fire.

"Marx," I whisper again, this time more breathless, my voice taking on a new quality.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes locking with mine. His hands drift down my body, one going to my hip while the other slides around my waist until he cups it from behind. His finger presses into my hipbone, sending electric currents to my core.

His finger's play with the hem of my panties, teasing me. The ache between my legs grow and I spread my thighs wider apart. Silently begging him to touch me, to let me know how it feels to have his thick fingers inside of me.

His fingers slide underneath the elastic band of my panties, and I almost cry out in relief. I want to feel his touch. I need to feel his touch.

His other hand moves up my spine, gripping it just above my neck. He cups the back of my head, holding me still. His other hand finally touches me where I need him to. I can't tell which is hotter, his scorching touch or the fire building inside of me.

His finger slides through my folds, gliding over my clit, before spreading me open. My hips buck against his hand as he slides the tip of his finger in. He holds back like he's enjoying teasing me. I want to scream. My need is so powerful that it's painful. I need release. I need Marx.

I squirm, but he holds me still. His finger still barely teasing me. My frustration is vocalized in my needy whimpers. Just when I think I can't handle it anymore, his finger finally, slowly pushes into me. I'm so wet that it glides in with ease. My muscles instinctively contract around him and he lets out that low, primal noise again.

"Yes," I pant, my mouth dry. I want more, I need more. I want to feel him inside of me. I want him to make me come while he fucks me senseless.

His finger slides out and when is slides back in, it's joined by a second one. I buck and writhe against his touch. I can't get close enough to him. I don't want him to stop. I want him to go harder, faster, deeper.

He quickly moves his thumb to my clit and circles it. I gasp and scream out in pleasure, as I feel the sensations build up inside of me. His fingers move faster, pushing into me deeper and deeper. My hips are rocking against him as I go higher and higher with pleasure. He knows just what to do to make my body respond.

I'm reaching the point where I can't take anymore; my orgasm is about to come crashing down on me.

He increases the pressure on my clit, his fingers moving faster, and I explode, screaming his name. My body convulses against him, his fingers thrusting deep inside of me before pulling all the way out.

He holds me there, letting me ride out the waves of pleasure. I catch my breath, about to say something, when Marx suddenly pulls away from me, not meeting my eyes. Without a word, he walks away, leaving me sitting in the darkness of the kitchen.