Hearing you cum makes me cum. The low moans that grow louder until the crescendo surges through you in a series of a delicious, harsh groans.
Sometimes you’re quiet, sometimes you’re loud. Sometimes it’s desperate and needing, connected to your soul as we join in slow, honey-sweet lovemaking. Others, it grates in your throat, rising from a pit of lust and want to finally satisfy that lascivious itch for me.
I don’t know why I make you cum. You say you like my tits, my arse, my pussy, my hair, my face. I think if I could see myself through your eyes, I might get it. But we are our own worst critic after all. I’m just happy you still want me, after years and changes, seeing me at my worst and best, somehow you’re still here and you still want to see me with my kit off, pumping your cock into my clenching pussy as if I’m Aphrodite herself.
But then again, you do the same. You don’t see what I see in you. I love your solid arms, your warm chest, your laugh and your smile. I love how those arms hold me close and those lips press soft against my forehead.
I see kindness and love to give but only to those you trust, and you hardly trust a soul. I must have done something right to see this side of you, and I’m thankful you trust me with it. I see your soft core underneath the layers of armour.
And I love hearing you at your most vulnerable, knowing it’s for me and me alone. I know you feel the same about me.
We might not know why, but knowing we do is enough.