(no subject)
Something I wrote for Melissa. Pronz. Ish.
He loves the look of her in his shirts. Well, he loves the look of her in anything, if he’s honest, but yes, oh yes, doesn’t she look particularly delicious all wrapped up in his tux shirt, his precious girl with her sleep-mussed hair all golden and burning in the early morning sun as she opens the blinds and lets in the gasping light of dawn, and he’s moving like he’s never moved before, pulling out of the linens and into the musk-stained air like a wild thing, like a spinning, aching need on the cusp of desire, and wraps his arms around her, pressing himself against her.
She laughs like bells ringing, like a wedding or a funeral or the birth of something new, and turns in his arms, pressing her morning lips into his kisses and melting against the white frame of the window, the curtains billowing around them in the soft, supple breeze, a breath like hers onto his jaw as she pulls him closer by his hipbones, leaning against the frame as he drapes a slender leg around his waist and waits for her to grab onto the wall for leverage/support before he taps softly against her other leg, and she smiles at him and murmurs something that tastes like love against his lips as she jumps a bit and slides an arm around his shoulder, drawing him nearer and he slides in and she cries out.
I love you, he whispers against her breasts, covered by his/her shirt and he does, oh he loves this woman, this girl-the push/pull pleasure of fucking/makelove-ing against the window-this beauty, this goddess who drank from the cup of Time herself and bought him chips at a chip shop. It’s never enough, he’ll never tire of her sighs and gasps and moaning crying sobbing and it hurts it’s so lovely-she’s… so very lovely-
And it’s everything and nothing and all things true.
He loves the look of her in his shirts. Well, he loves the look of her in anything, if he’s honest, but yes, oh yes, doesn’t she look particularly delicious all wrapped up in his tux shirt, his precious girl with her sleep-mussed hair all golden and burning in the early morning sun as she opens the blinds and lets in the gasping light of dawn, and he’s moving like he’s never moved before, pulling out of the linens and into the musk-stained air like a wild thing, like a spinning, aching need on the cusp of desire, and wraps his arms around her, pressing himself against her.
She laughs like bells ringing, like a wedding or a funeral or the birth of something new, and turns in his arms, pressing her morning lips into his kisses and melting against the white frame of the window, the curtains billowing around them in the soft, supple breeze, a breath like hers onto his jaw as she pulls him closer by his hipbones, leaning against the frame as he drapes a slender leg around his waist and waits for her to grab onto the wall for leverage/support before he taps softly against her other leg, and she smiles at him and murmurs something that tastes like love against his lips as she jumps a bit and slides an arm around his shoulder, drawing him nearer and he slides in and she cries out.
I love you, he whispers against her breasts, covered by his/her shirt and he does, oh he loves this woman, this girl-the push/pull pleasure of fucking/makelove-ing against the window-this beauty, this goddess who drank from the cup of Time herself and bought him chips at a chip shop. It’s never enough, he’ll never tire of her sighs and gasps and moaning crying sobbing and it hurts it’s so lovely-she’s… so very lovely-
And it’s everything and nothing and all things true.