She lived for the thrust of his body, driving her impossibly on, impossibly higher. Her high was in the sweat that dripped from his face to coat her lips, the groans that vibrated along her being. Flesh pressed so close, the smell of sex permeating the air as he filled her so full she disconnected from herself.
They were strangers, but she knew his body as well as her own.
Their meetings lacked deep conversation and meaningful moments. It was bursting through her door, it was ripping fabric and demanding hands, it was his mouth claiming hers until she could barely breathe. He’d push her down and pull such sounds from her that she didn’t even recognize her own voice. Frenzy, passion, lust.
When they rested after, in between bouts of mind-blowing sex, she let him draw her into his arms. One hand would cup her breast as he tucked his semi hard shaft against her. His breath would rush along her cheek, hot and wet. The pounding of his heart would mingle with hers, slowing until they synced. That was her moment.
She always pretended he was hers then.
Pretended the pounding hearts and pretty words came more than once a week when he got the itch. Pretended the smiles and the rush she got happened everyday. Pretended they entwined more than just their limbs. Pretended they were really a they. It was what kept her going, the pretending.
He squeezed her breast and she arched as he hardened, sending a spark between her thighs.
“Again?” She whispered into the darkness unable to hide her wistful longing.
The tiny thrust of his hips sent his cock sliding along her butt and up her back. He slicked her skin with fluid as his tongue licked the salt from her neck. Goose bumps raced along her body as she let him move her to her back. Move her right where he wanted her.
Even as he filled her up just right, she still pretended. This was the love he offered and she arched into him to receive it.