He traced his fingers down my spine in a fluid, languid, delicious movement, a motion like water slipping over silk, or a tongue slipping over a swollen cock. I closed my eyes, sighed, and went where the sensation took me. Where he took me. Where he always took me with the simplest touch, or without touching at all.  He could say something mundane, bland, over bowls of cornflakes and too-brown toast in the morning, and I’d follow his words back into that place, into our bed, into our most intimate moments. I thought that alone made an everyday breakfast an intimate moment.

“Do you love me?” I asked him.

His fingers travelled lower, now sweeping with agonizing slowness across the small of my back.  “You have to ask?”

I balled the sheet in my fist and tried to slow my heart beat as his fingers skated lazily over my buttocks, the goose-flesh racing ahead of him. “You know I do.”

“I love you. With all my heart.”

Then it was his tongue, his lips, his teeth sinking into the cheek of my ass, and I knew the play was over. I knew he would now take what he wanted from me until I cried at the ceiling.

And afterwards, we would start all over again.

4 thoughts on “Intimate

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