How I lost my way. Again

I think about you more than I should. I know it’s dangerous territory to be playing in but I can’t seem to help myself. Our time together is finite and I know it will likely end sooner than I would have it. But when you left me this last time, to return to your family, to the partner you claim to no longer share a bed with, I knew I was falling. It’s been a while for me. To feel like this. And I didn’t expect it to be you. Didn’t want it to be you.

The first time we kissed, I felt you would devour me. I have never been kissed so hungrily, so thoroughly. I didn’t think a kiss could be so soft and yet so rough, hot and wet and light and hard and consuming. I couldn’t get enough. I still can’t. Every kiss is the same. It has lost none of the intensity of that first kiss and yet I feel sorrow now as well because each one might be the last. You’ll have to leave soon.

When you touched my naked body for the first time, explored me with your lips, your hands, your cock, I was shaking. Your voice was deep when you whispered in my ear, deeper than its usual masculine caress. “You’re a fucking sexy woman”, you told me. I never believe you but oh I want to. Face down on my bed, you spread my legs far apart and gorge on my cunt. With tongue and lips and fingers you dine on my arse, licking up the deep flood that spills from me as I come. I’m shaking and your cock isn’t even inside me yet.

My body pulses from your touch and my back arches so violently I fear it might snap in pleasure. You pull my hair and lift my head and shoulders from the bed. You take my forearms and hold me there, my hands clasped to you. When you thrust into me, the moans are involuntary. I couldn’t be quiet if I tried. I never want it to stop. But it has to, eventually.

Sitting astride you, your cock buried deep inside me, I fuck you until I come. Again and again and again. My hands are splayed on your chest, supporting my weight, while you urge me on. I’m whimpering from the pleasure. You pull my head down close and kiss me furiously, holding my face on yours while I fuck you. “That’s it, don’t stop. Don’t stop! Come for me, come on. Don’t stop!” It’s not for him. He wants to watch me come, my face contorted in some expression of exquisite agony until I collapse on top of him. He’ll need to shower before he goes.

He rolls me over and lifts my legs, drives into me while I’m still catching my breath. His sweat cascades down his body onto mine like a waterfall, dousing me in his sexual energy. Everything tastes like him, like me, like us. My hands are in his hair, my mouth on his nipple, biting hard how he likes it. He fucks me hard, frantic. We never fuck slowly. We don’t know how. Every time is frenzied, like we’re scared if we go slow it will disappear, this connection. But then, he doesn’t have much time.

The first time he came, I watched mouth open, struck by the rawness of it. He growls like a bear, building in duration and ferocity as he fills me. It’s guttural and real, like his whole being is being expelled from his body. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. Once is never enough, and it never has been only once. We fuck twice, three times. We talk in between, about things that matter or at least it feels that way to me. Does she wonder where he is? What he’s doing? He tells me no. I guess it doesn’t matter.

When he leaves, I finish the bottle of champagne he brought with him and I stare at my phone.

“I quite adore fucking you,” I message him.

“Yes. I’m in that boat with you,” he says. “Lots of fun.”

And in that word, I realised how fucked I actually am.

Our time together is finite.




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