It is in how she closes her eyes and throws her head backward, firmly gripping my shoulder and bucking fiercely against my hips.
It is in how she sings to me an opera with her moans, the rise and fall of her pitch perfectly matching the rhythm of our conjoined hips.
It is in how she doesn't care about the sleeping neighbours. To her, to us, this show is for the stands. This is no lullaby.
It is in how she shudders and digs her fingers into my collar bones, pressing her breasts against my bony chest, her long hair covering both our heads like the dark clouds of tonight, her words tumbling out softly this time as she grinds her pelvis against mine, "I love you. I love you so much."
It is in how we lock our lips and hug each other tightly as she collapses onto me, fully electrified and completely spent.
It is in how this feels like heaven.
This place.
Nirvana.
YOU ARE READING
Bedroom Whispers
Non-FictionThe bedroom holds sacred territory for me. The bed, its altar. One upon which I've offered sacrifices, so many to count and recall. One upon which I currently lay as I once more pay my dues, in taps and clicks. I miss the days when the gods were co...
