The first time I had him inside me. I was lounging low and careless on the couch, legs wrapped around him. We had been kissing, desperately and passionately grabbing at each other. I don’t remember our clothes coming off, or even if they were off.
He knelt before me, pushed himself excruciatingly slowly into me, joined at the cock and cunt.
He closed his eyes, his head went back, a blind prayer offered to the ceiling. He moaned. He pulled back, thrust forward again, slow, all sensation and pleasure, hands on my hips holding me steady.
I watched him lose himself and suddenly felt alone, lonely. I waited for him to come back for me. He didn’t, lost in his own feeling. His cock and his hands kept us connected, but he was gone, his pleasure all his own. The sex was somehow a thing separate from me. He disappeared, or perhaps I did.
I leaned forward, grabbed the back of his neck, squeezed. He stopped moving, opened his eyes, looked at me.
“Hey, you know it’s me,” I said. More of a question than a fact.
He held my gaze, I’m not sure he understood, but he knew I needed something, knew better than to gloss over it.
He looked at me. Really looked at me.
“I know,” he said. Affirmation, if not understanding.
“Then kiss me.”