I’ll not describe your hair, your eyes, or your smell. I’d rather write the way your hands hold me, the way your lips claim mine, the way your mouth clings to my neck as you fuck me. I’ve written enough about feelings and I’ve described too many people, now I want to write you down, in the filthiest way possible.
Admittedly, I prefer you when you’re naked. I like seeing the curve of your arse as you lean over, while my hand finds its place between my thighs (exactly where I want you). I love the way you reach out for me, the way you penetrate me, gently yet with a subtle exasperation.
I love the way your fingers lace around mine, a reassurance that you’re there, a need to be linked in every way possible. The way you kiss me gently, sometimes just a small peck, but your lips linger there as you run your nails down my back, trying very hard to scratch me. I’ll hiss and moan, you’ll have that smirk on your lips that I can quickly wipe away just by grinding you.
I love the noises you make when you’re about to come. The way your face scrunches up in concentration and pleasure, how your eyes roam my body instead of shutting. I love the way you won’t stop until you feel my walls clench around you. You like seeing my back arch in pure pleasure, you like teasing me until I’m at the very hedge. And you push me off the precipice with just one touch.
In the end, I love the way you hold me close, unafraid to let it show how much you actually care. I love the way you kiss me in that sloppy and tired way, the way you wrap your arms around me and your breath on my ear lulls me to sleep.
This is how I’ll write you, this is how I want the future to read us: two pale bodies, lost in each other, lost in the pleasure of your naivety. And oh, we’ll be imortal.