I grabbed his face and kissed him, my sweaty body sticking to his, knees bent and pressed deep into my couch cushions on the sides of his thighs.
“I need a break,” I said, and hopped off, turning on my heel to head toward the bathroom.
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, grabbing my hips and pulling me back down onto his lap.
“Yes!” I said, laughing, squirming, while he held me firmly in place. I finally managed to wiggle down to the floor, where I threw myself forward, ready to take off – but he was quick. He grabbed my biceps and held me there. “Where are you going?” he asked with amusement.
“I have to pee! Let me go!” I said, still laughing. “Okay,” he said, briefly letting go of my arms for a moment. As soon as I moved my arm forward onto the floor in front of me, however, he had grabbed my leg and dragged me back a few inches.
What ensued was me slowly making my way to the bathroom; I would crawl a foot forward and he would pull me back six inches. I’d move, he’d drag. I was no longer focused on my bladder – now we were playing a game. The Texan is a foot taller than me and considerably heavier; the first time we wrestled, he was surprised at how long I could hold him down. But now he was the one towering above me, letting me think I could almost make it before making sure I couldn’t. And it was fucking hot. What needed a respite before now re-lubricated at the struggle. I wanted him to drag me, to pull me, to hold me down and immobilize me. I strove to inch forward harder so he could pull me back just as hard. It was exhausting, but it felt like much-needed relief in some way.
It triggered something in him that opened up to me that night. In bed, in the dark, I held him tight; he told me some really personal things and asked me deep questions. I felt more connected to him than I ever had. It was like that struggle to move different directions had snapped us both into place next to each other, holding fast, at least for the night.