I pull my dress skirt, dragging the hem through the dust of the unfinished house where he and I meet.
“I love how you dress easily naked.” Loki teases and toys with the laces of my corset that I left untied. I blush from his notice and attention.
“I don’t want sex. I want everything else. The undress, the mess, the romance, the sky overhead and inside me, the universe. I want my pale face shadowed and my lips swollen. The act of mating itself is pointless to me without the dance that surrounds it. Orgasming is a reaction, not a result. I hate the pettiness of looking towards results only.”
“You want to tip overflowing. Not to be emptied, but enjoyed. And why is this troubling to you?” he asks, tender mischief in his voice.
“It’s not. It is. It’s fucked up because it’s not the game or the sport. It’s the realness. Like when you sip your coffee, and I watch the devil detailed across your lips, and my heart can’t take it. Beautifully mundane and intricate.”
“You’re a poet, darling. That’s all. Nothing shameful in that.” His eyes flash.
“Yes, but there is, because the frustration is unnecessary and toilsome and also possibly immature of me to hold so much desire and not have an end plan.”
“You love the ordeal and appreciate confluences.”
“Yes. And the ordeal of just life, too. It is quite the ordeal, and I find it very attractive, hot and sensuous, like sizzling steak crusted in herbs. Why go through the trouble? Because the trouble is the best part.”
Loki makes the slightest hm sound of pleasure, and so do I.
“I love exploring my psychology with you.”
“I know, sweet girl. I love that you do.”
