The lust of love

She stretched out lazily on her bed. The delicious tiredness invading her body and the dis-arrayed pillows, scattered all about the floor, were the only testaments of the wild time she had the night before. Sinking back into the duvet, she closed her eyes and reflected back. The memory of every single touch, taste, and kiss, came rushing, suffusing her body with the glorious heat, reminiscent of what he had made her feel with each touch of his.



She remembered his urgency: the way he had impatiently tugged aside the bodice of her midnight-blue dress, to expose her creamy bosom, the way he had cupped her in his palms, gently squeezing and then roughly tasting. She remembered his admiration: how he had attempted wet kisses down her front, an open-mouthed lick to each of the skin that got exposed as he slowly pulled her dress down.

She remembered his arousal: his unique taste on her tongue, his unique scent- the intrinsic maleness and an earthy cologne blended into a harmony which left her intoxicated, his hardness pressing into her heat. She remembered how he felt: inside her, above her, around her, enveloping her in his heat that seemed to burn her up and yet like a moth to a flame, she kept on seeking more until peaceful oblivion pulled them into exhausted numbness.

She opened her eyes, as she felt the bed dip beside her. His familiar warmth filling up her space. She snuggled closer just like she had for the last two decades.

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