Obsession: Tales of Irresistible Desire by Paula Guran

it spread the warmth throughout his body, but then there was the briefest sensation of panic when he tried to pull away from her just a bit, to break the sweat adhesion of their bodies, just to make himself a little more comfortable, and found that he couldn’t. Couldn’t remove himself from her. He had lost the sense of an edge to his own skin, where it connected to her, and the way her arms and legs had wrapped around his so tightly it seemed she had sprouted more arms and legs somehow, and she had climbed up onto him so that he held her up completely, and she was so light she seemed not to have added an ounce to his own weight.
    “Closer . . . closer,” she whispered, her voice inside his head.
    He had been talking all evening, barely above a whisper, so that for nearly anyone else he’d be nearly impossible to hear. But he was convinced she heard every word, even though she had said nothing in reply. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to do: convince her, reason with her, balance the fantasy with some hard facts about the limitations inherent in human flesh. He made no arguments, no assertions, but rambled all night long, lulling himself, seducing himself, reacquainting himself with those realities.
    “To see out of your eyes. To breathe what you breathe, taste what you taste. I think everyone wants that, to be so close, but it’s a dream, isn’t it? I mean, human beings aren’t made that way. That’s why we’re such a sad bunch: what we desire most in our lives is impossible because of our very nature. And we can’t push past our own physical natures. Can we?”
    The question hung in the darkness between them until morning.
    For a week they left the bed only to use the bathroom or grab something from the kitchen, take it back to the bed, feed themselves, feed each other, smearing each other with whatever was soft enough to mash and spread, licking it from skin, nibbling it off smooth rises, chewing it out of hollows. After another week they made calls to the stores, paid by credit card, and had food delivered in boxes by the front door, sneaking out when they thought no one else could see, because they didn’t want to share their nakedness with anyone else. Or perhaps, he thought, they were too embarrassed about the way they looked now, the way they smelled, the rawness about them.
“Hu . . . hu . . . Hugh! Can’t breathe!”
    He heard the fear in her muffled voice, but he was too tired, or too reluctant, to move his mouth away from hers, even though his own lips hurt, his throat was a deep well of pain, and he thought maybe his gums were bleeding. Certainly he tasted blood almost all the time now, every kiss highlighted with it.
    “Hugh!” She exploded out from under him. In desperation or orgasm he could not tell, nor did he think there was much difference for them anymore. She sat on the edge of the bed, face in her hands, shaking. He started to rub her back. The skin wrinkled, reddened. She made a small cry and edged away. “I . . . I can’t . . . kiss you anymore. It hurts!” She said it angrily.
    “I’m sorry, I should have stopped.”
    “No, no honey.” She twisted around and clutched his hand. He noticed that the back of her hand was red, skinned, beginning to break down. “I like, or, no, I want it. I really do. Maybe just a little rest.”
    She lay down next to him and they were careful not to touch at first. Her breath came in short, ragged explosions, with occasional tears. He reached out cautiously, one finger pressing gently into the side of her hand. She laid her hand on top of his. After a while he couldn’t hear her breathing anymore. He rose on one elbow and twisted his head toward her. Her hand didn’t move. He stared hard at her chest, her throat. The skin looked pebbled, abraded, a faint trace of scabbing beginning to show. He couldn’t see her breathing. He moved over her, straddled her. He laid one hand on her shoulder and shook it gently. Nothing. He looked down at her