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You miss it, don't you?
It's hat feeling of heat, blazing, the sensation that you forget every time and it only comes rushing back when someone's inside you again. It's warmth and weight and written with decisive hands on your skin. It's glinting eyes and stubble on your neck and strong hands that do what words can't.
It's that blank, blissful space, when the racing thoughts that can't quite stay in focus don't matter anymore, sweat trickling down the small of your back and responsibility is a four-letter word. It's watching me watch you, eyes not even bothering to conceal their lazy drift up and down, up and down, knowing that you could say something but it would mean nothing that the heat doesn't already say for you.
It's feeling small and bare and open, of being not so much taken care of as simply taken, one hand in your hair and one self-assured grin at a time.
It's that little voice in the back of your head, the one that you hate sometimes, the one that tells you that all this feels right. The one that wants to say something responsible, something that only slips out as a wordless sound.
It's heat and sweat and need; it's not useful but you're damn sure it feels like being used.
It's what you want, though, isn't it?
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- 1 year ago
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