Stripper

My hands are shaking. I hold them before me, staring at the tremor. I sink to the kitchen floor, picking up my water bottle, my eyes noticing the spilt water. I took a deep drink, waiting for my heart to calm, my hands to still, my shakes to pass. I need to get to my room, need to separate myself from him, from this kitchen. I need to take a shower, to lie down, take a nap. I stumble away from the counter, grabbing my tee-shirt, putting foot ahead of foot in a quest for normalcy. Out the door, into the guest house. Two steps inside the bedroom, I feel his hand grab my wrist, yank me around in one clean moment, and bend his mouth back to mine.

There is not a moment of hesitation in his kiss, his hands releasing me, his mouth following mine as I fall the final inches onto the bed. He moves above me, our lips moving, tongues intertwining, mouths crushing, tasting each other fully.

My confused state is gaining intelligence as I move, the implications of what we are doing ringing alarm bel