I miss the intensity of his breath on my shoulder after.

When we finished and collapsed side by side, I’d already begun missing the touch of his fingers slipping inside me. I’d already began feeling deprived of him–of his taste, his thrust, and his beard rubbing against the pours of my face.

I’ve come to question myself and my strength. How can I possibly go back? How can I possible want more of him?

And the answer is continuously the same: I have no idea.

Even now, all I want is to slowly kiss down his stomach and gently run my tongue down him until the breath he was holding for the last few minutes releases, and I can feel the shift of him in my mouth.

I want to roll over on top of him and surprise him with undeniable pleasure. I want to take him to a new world and boldly strip down all of his layers. I want to know him inside and out, and I want to feel both close to me–kissing my breasts with his lips and running his tongue all over my body.

I’m not sure when to stop or where to stop or if maybe, I should have stopped already. But what I am certain of–is that I don’t give a God damn fuck.


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