The Breaking Point

Happy Valentine's Day To Me

Just got home after a day out. I'm tired. It's a normal day, nothing important. Just this quiet, nagging feeling in my gut, and everywhere I look it reminds me how romantically unloved I really am. It doesn't affect me, really. I've been like this for eighteen years, one more doesn't change anything.

Before, I would've wished for a Valentine. A date. A soft, sweet night out. Kisses, hugs, fingers laced together, something tender and coupley.

But this year feels different.

I still want those things, yes. But what I crave more is something deeper. I want to be desired. Hungered for. I want someone to need to be on me, to look at me like restraint is physically painful.

I'm lying here in my jacuzzi, steam curling around my skin, imagining all the countless things I could do. If only I lived alone. If only my parents weren't so strict. I wouldn't be here alone, I'd have him here with me. Not just any guy. I'm not a whore. Just one. The one I won't name.

I'd invite him over. We'd talk at first, very casual, almost innocent. Pour a drink or two, laugh about something stupid. As we talk the air would grow heavier without either of us knowing. The silence would stretch, thickly, until breathing felt harder, like the tension itself was stealing the oxygen from the room.

I'd look into his eyes and see it, how badly he wants to move closer, to do something. How he's fighting himself, trying to stay composed in case I'm not on the same page. That quiet war inside him would make it even better. All that restraint. All that control.

And then he'd lose.

He'd finally give in, closing the distance, pressing his mouth to mine like he can't take another second without tasting me. His hand would slide to my jaw, firm, possessive, holding me in place while he angles my head exactly how he wants it. Not gentle. Hungry. Like he's been imagining this for just as long as I have.

The surprise wouldn't be that he kissed me.

It would be that he finally allowed himself to.

The steam from the jacuzzi would cling to our skin, making everything slick and heated. Our bodies would press together, slow at first, testing, feeling each other out beneath the water. Every shift of his hips, every brush of his chest against mine would send sparks through me. I'd intertwine my fingers in his wet hair, pushing him closer. Locking him, refusing to let him pull away.

Our mouths wouldn't just kiss, they'd fight. A slow battle over who wants who more. Teeth grazing lips. Soft groans being swallowed between us. The kind of kiss that makes your head spin and your pulse pound in your ears.

In the haze of the heat, I wouldn't even notice his hand sliding beneath the water until his fingers find my inner thigh, his grip harsh and possessive. A whimper would break against his lips, and the sound would only make him move with more intensity. Suddenly, he'd break away, standing to sit on the edge of the jacuzzi. The height difference would put him right at my eye level, his silhouette framed by the rising mist.

As he frees himself from his suit, I'd look up in awe, waiting for the silent permission to touch him, to savor him. But the restraint he held all night is gone. He'd reach out, his hand wrapping firmly around my neck to tilt my head back, his grip tightening just enough to make my breath hitch. He'd kiss me one last time rough and demanding before guiding me down.

I start slowly, teasing him with deliberate kisses and licks, driving him toward a desperation he can't voice. I'd want to see him unravel, to hear the groans I provoked. But then, the air would change, and his plans were different. I feel the sudden, heavy pressure of his hand at the nape of my neck.

He loses his cool entirely. No more games, no more teasing. He takes hold of me, his movements fueled by all that suppressed anger and hunger, thrusting with a desperation that leaves me breathless and lightheaded. Claiming my mouth with its every movement, releasing all that tension we built.

With one final, deep surge, he holds me there, the intensity of it vibrating through us both until he finally releases in me. Only then would he pull me back up, looking at me with a sense of dark pride. He'd brush the hair from my face, his eyes searching mine, before leaning in to kiss me slowly tasting the evidence of his own want on my lips.

The steam is still there, curling around me, but it doesn't feel like a movie anymore. It's just... wet. The silence in the house is so loud it actually makes my ears ring, and the only thing pressing against my skin is the hot water.

I look at the empty spot on the ledge where I imagined him sitting, and the ripple of the jets is the only thing moving. No heavy breathing, no hands on my neck, no nothing. Just me, R&B music and a wandering mind.

But that's just what I wish could happen.

Instead, I'm just here. Sitting in a big, expensive tub in a house that feels way too quiet. Just alone. In this jacuzzi. Same as it's always been.