Eight Hours

Eight hours. I was his for eight hours and he was mine. We spent the first two hours at dinner. The third and fourth hour, we spent talking nonstop in his car. By the fifth hour, we were back at his place. For the next two and a half, there was no one else in the world except us.

There were no insecurities, no doubts, nothing holding us back. There were kisses, there were caresses, there were shortened breaths and elated sighs. There was my body against his and his against mine. The smell of his cologne was on my skin, in my hair. The taste of his skin was on my mouth, on my tongue. There was no thinking, just the carnal need for each other. We were enthralled with each other as if we were under a spell.

In the middle of the eighth hour though, the spell began to wear off. With slowed breaths and quiet whispers, we began to speak of the time and how the sun was rising. We began to count down the minutes until we needed to get up.

We began to dress again near the end of the eighth hour. I caught a whiff of his scent as I pulled my clothes on, reveling in it and silently hoping that this last hour wouldn’t end.

When we were dressed and at his door, the last of its spell was working its magic. With a quickness and a low dip of his head, he pressed me against the door and kissed me. One final kiss before we parted and that was it.

And as soon as the door was opened, the spell was broken. We no longer belonged to each other. Eight hours. That’s all we had.