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“Are you sore?” he asks.
“I’m okay.”
“I wanna be inside you.”
“I want that, too.”
He runs his hand down my side, and I break out in chills. “I’m not leaving you. Do you understand that? Not for as long as you’ll have me.”
“I’ll have you,” I say as he slides my underwear down my thighs. “I need you so much.”
A moment or two later, I squirm in delicious discomfort as he slides lube into my hole on two fingers. He watches me closely for my reaction. “What did I tell you the first time we did this?” he asks.
“That you don’t want to hurt me,” I gasp.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No, I like it. I really like it, Drew.”
“Even last night.”
I nod, too eager. “I really fucking like it.”
Satisfied with my enthusiasm, he crooks his fingers, putting extra pressure on the overly sensitive bundle of nerves inside, and I press into his hand. He repeats the motion, and I do, too, until my cock is pouring precum, and I’m panting like a sprinter in summer.
“I love the way you ride my fingers, baby. So fucking hot… Wish you could feel how turned on I am. I’m so fucking hard for you.”
One thing I’ll miss about morning-after-work Drew is the way he loses all his filters. Words flow, and he’s horny as fuck. When the words are dirty—he reduces me to a series of nerve endings barely attached to a consciousness. “Please—fuck…please…”
“Please what? Fuck you? Drill you deep with this big, hard cock?” He rubs my prostate again, and I cry out, yet still I seek the wicked tease again, rolling my hips and begging him with my needy body for more. My dick is straining for a touch—friction. I bite my lip so hard I taste copper. Jesus. The sweat on my brow feels drenching. If I brushed it back, my hair would be damp.
“Yes,” I whine. “Fuck me… I need it. I need you.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.”
“Say my name.”
“I love you, Drew.”
He slides his fingers out of me and pins me to the bed, face up. I part my legs for him, and he’s there in a heartbeat, filling the emptiness with one, slick, gut-twisting slide of his cock.
His hands take mine and hold them above my head. He kisses me hard, fucking both my holes so thoroughly I barely feel like a person anymore.
With my calves around his thighs, I meet his thrusts with my own, clenching around his length because it feels good to fight it. The amount of bearing down I do makes me light-headed. My kiss is sloppy and wet—ravenous. A mess. My cock is finally getting what it wants, the grinding pressure of his six-pack as we grunt and fuck like mating beasts. It’s rough and romantic—burns so fucking good.
Do I feel loved?
Absolutely. More than loved. Vital.
Do I love him?
There’s more to it than that.
I choose him.
He’s more important to me than high ceilings and a park view. He makes me feel safer than money ever has. He’d be devastated if I stopped breathing in my sleep. He’d never take his eyes off me again, and I wouldn’t mind.
