Vanilla

She never begrudges him the late night visits, the quick selfish fucks from behind. She wakes up to his erection pressing against her buttocks, so she moulds her body to his, she shifts her pelvis to meet him, turns her head towards him to feel his breath on her cheek. But tonight he wants to look at her face while he fucks her, so he turns her on her back and spreads her legs just enough to climb between them, feeling the warmth of her drowsy thighs under his. He can just discern the outline of her features in the dim light from the street lamps seeping in through the shutters, the shape of her face framed by her dark hair spread on her pillow, her half-closed eyes, the faint smile — you’ve come to me, it seems to be saying, you’re finally here. He presses his mouth to hers to get her juices going — he knows a long, deep kiss is all she needs. Then he enters her slowly, gently, and as he picks up the pace, his eyes get used to the darkness, and he pays attention to the biting of her lower lip, the way her eyes linger on his mouth before she lifts them to meet his, the slight furrowing of the brow at his hardest thrusts. He’s not pinning down her arms tonight, it wouldn’t be appropriate the first time they’re together after so long. A night of vanilla, he owes her that much. He allows her to feel him, and when her hands move up and tangle themselves in his hair, when she pulls his head backwards and sucks hard at his neck, biting and moaning and pressing her pelvis to his, when he feels her contracting down there, squeezing him exquisitely, he can’t contain himself anymore and comes inside her in a series of short, violent spurts: the epilogue to a two-month long deprivation.

When I’m in love. When she deserves it.

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