by Peter Davidson
She drew on the thin hand-rolled cigarette, watching as the tip flared incandescent. The room glowed. It was best seen this way, she decided; briefly and from the light of a cigarette. A borrowed apartment, undecorated, uncared for. It meant nothing. This was about enjoying a secret pleasure, a one-time indulgence, a needed satisfaction. Her hand rested against the wall, illuminated blood-red from the thin, burning erection held stiff between her fingers. It was impossible not to think in those terms. She could still feel that heat, that other glow, deep between her thighs. Nearby on the bed, she knew he was watching. Within soft monochrome shadows lay the outline of his body, resting, sated. Drawing hard on the cigarette, she watched as his eyes caught and threw back the sudden flare. Glittering points of fire in the darkness. There had been no time for words, for gentle kisses. No time for her to run, to change her mind, to talk, to doubt. Pressed against the wall, its cold hardness biting into her skin, the heat of him, his hardness pressing into her, she embraced abandonment and surrender. Her legs encircled his waist, drawing him into her even as he held her impaled, her hands pinned high above her head, his mouth smothering her cries. She ground the cigarette into the wall, watching the embers flare and cascade to the floor, the flame extinguished. It was time to return to the those watching eyes, and the fire within.