Compared to Eoith, Novelite’s back was soft; all bamboo yarn and rip tide waves beneath his fingertips. He was used to hard, concise edges, the result of burgeoning days of manual labor and general aggression. But Novelite was just skin, so dainty and bijou, like the bones in her limbs dissolved into the milks of her marrow.
His name sounded faulty on such quiet lips–much different than the urgency to which he was accustomed. Novelite dragged each syllable by its collar, down and across every inch of her throat.
Eoith never bothered to address him by name.
This didn’t occur to him until now, with his new girlfriend’s pelvis pressed into his chest, crying and begging him for his touch–one worthy of being an object’s desires. To Eoith, he was always ‘you,’ or ‘that guy,’ in more argumentative states, ‘mother fucker,’ but more often than not, he was her baby. The term lacked the endearment she intended to the point he wondered if there were any flirtatious intentions at all.
He knew that Eoith loved him–she never shied away from affectionate statements.
Courageous tendons eager for intercouse.
Shaking his head against the pillow, he forced himself to focus on Novelite. The girl in the here and now.
The one who crafted actions from her sentiments.
Novelite, like Eoith, was handsomely warped, born with a mind etched against the ability to maintain control. She had shit parents too, a bad upbringing, but managed to not let the trauma steamroll clement into spite.
To Eoith, he was nothing more than a comfort object; discarded and reapplied to her wounded arms as needed. Even now, with a new girlfriend, he couldn’t see himself as anything else.
A hand slid down the dip in his chest, Novelite’s libertine eyes tracing every edge of his naked body. She was naked as well, save for the gem around her neck, immersed in the blank skin above her ribs. The stone was tumbled in quartz, but the aquamarine teased his wandering gaze. It was tantalizing, but still, lulled the serenity into his nerve endings.
She picked up on this, drumming her nails across his chest.
“Your nail polish matches your gem.” He flushed at his words.
“Rune, you dork,” she said, then pressed her thighs against his waist.
His eyes shot open, then hushed back down against his cheeks. He willed himself not to be so damn sensitive.
Instead, he focused on the facts: Novelite was on top of him; wanted him, and he wanted her; this is the way that it should have been his whole life. The realization punched him flat onto his senses, and more passionately onto Novelite.
Anger was not a strong enough term to describe what thrusted him forward. All those years of Eoith telling him that he was destined for creativity and soul derived itself from a place of animus, possibly condescension. The notion that she was more mature, and therefore knew best, kept him complacent in a worthless relationship.
It took a year before he was comfortable enough to be near Novelite, another few months between dating and sex. Present zeal notwithstanding, this was a comfort and a treasure.
He didn’t fear for his safety in bed with Novelite.
Eoith had no boundaries, didn’t understand that ‘no’ wasn’t open to interpretation; according to her, because he was the man, he had no right to object. The more belligerent Eoith got, the more vertebrae were pulled from his objections until they collapsed altogether. It was Novelite who convinced him that this wasn’t okay. She gave him proper space to work through it and heal.
He still didn’t know what to make of it. All he knew was that this felt good, the rhythm of Novelite’s necklace thumping the place his heart should be.
Rune eased up on her when he realized he might have been going too hard, profusely apologizing, asking if everything was alright.
Novelite giggled and called him a dork again. “It’s alright,” she said. “I like your wild side.”
He wanted to say something equally as cheesy, but couldn’t find the words, so he let her take the reigns again. Being on bottom was familiar, but he knew this time was different: the process punctuated with a clear message and proper movement, made more secure by her dulcet body on his.
Rune was in bliss; there was nothing passive about the love he and Novelite were making.