Couple Walking in Venice Rain by Jim McKinniss
She’s walking down the street with her hand in his. She knows it’s there—her brain tells her it is – but she can barely feel it. The thread that connects her body to her mind is as thin as a spider’s web, billowing and fine. She’s tethered but only just.
They walk slowly, enjoying the grayness of the day, the rain. They’re soaked, but there’s no rush to hurry home so they continue hand in hand, meandering over the cobbles. She feels them under her feet, slippery, turtle-like bumps. She feels them from a distance, from centuries away.
They stop in front of a window full of posters for theater and half-off drinks. He brings her fingers to his mouth and nibbles at the tips without really thinking about it. She loves the casual way he puts part of her in his mouth. She knows she does. She knows.
She strains into that knowing, strains so hard that she can almost feel the pressure of his teeth. Almost. She leans into his shoulder, rests her temple on wet wool, inhaling his scent. She loves his scent. She knows she does.
They turn from the window and he says something about drinks. She murmurs something like yes. She’d love drinks. She knows she would. But even though her head is telling her this, even though she trusts it to be true, the emotional response she should be having—warmth, pleasure, arousal, whatever—doesn’t come. She just knows.
From high above her body, she watches them walk on, arm in arm, as the rain muffles the city. She knows her hair is plastered to her head, as sleek and dark as sealskin. She knows her boots are soaked. She knows it the way she knows his jeans are drenched and that his skin will taste like rain. Like her body is his and not her own. The tether is getting thinner.
“What are you thinking about?”
He asks her, light and easy, but there’s a gravity in his tone. She shakes her head.
“Nothing much,” she says, truthfully. “My hair. Your coat. How wet I am.”
The words come out with an effortless, flirty lilt.
“Yeah? How wet are you?”
She knows which wet he means. He means the one she implied. It’s automatic and real and true and not. She doesn’t even know.
“Soaked,” she says. “To the bone.”
And that is true—she’s soaked, and not just her clothes. She’s slick between her legs. She knows she is. She knows. She wishes she could feel it.
He squeezes her arm. More cobbles. Dead leaves. Everything is slick. The rain is getting heavier and the street lamps come on. Flash of lightning, like a silent film. He pulls her into the doorway of a pretty antique shop.
She knows his hands are warm on her cold, cold face. His hands are always warm and she is always very cold. She watches them, from high above. What a pretty couple, she thinks. He sinks his hands into the river of her hair. His tongue is hot in her mouth. Her body responds. She knows it will. Her body always responds.
Her thighs tremble as his fingers slide inside her, as sure as going home. Her hips move against his hand. He feels so good against her – good and warm, solid as an anchor. She knows he does. Knowing makes her feel. Eventually, it does. Knowing makes her fingers fumble with his belt.
The rain is coming hard now, veiling them but not so well that someone couldn’t see. She feels a flutter in her chest. She feels a flutter in chest and pops the buttons of his fly. She strokes his cock he strokes her, two fingers deep, not so distant as before. She feels her body hum and tuck into his.
“Where are you?”
“I’m here.”
“Stay with me,” he says.
He breathes the “me” more than says it. It travels over her skin, shivering, warming, raveling her in. His cock rubs against her hip as he works her with his hand. She knows what he feels like, buried inside her, knows how he feels at every angle everywhere. She knows and now she needs more.
She sinks her fingers into his soft, damp hair and tugs until she feels an answering pull. She’s watching from very close now. Her breathing gets ragged and he lifts her up and pins her to the wall. Stone presses into her back; her legs wrap around his waist; her body tilts and then he’s in her. A puzzle piece that fits.
“Where are you?”
“I’m here.”
She feels his eyes and she meets them, and kisses him suddenly, hard.
“Come with me,” she whispers. “Now.”
She groans. The sound is thick with so much feeling that the feeling almost hurts. But she stays in the doorway with him, with her body and his body and the crash of him against her and her deep tidal pull. For now, she doesn’t know anything. For now, she’s anchored tight. For now, she’s tied down close.
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