I stopped writing because I didn’t want to remember. I wanted to bury your memory and just close the goddamn book, but you’re still here, in my dirtiest thoughts and hottest fantasies. What’s wrong with me?
It’s like I can’t get your scent out of my mind and the way you felt inside me. I can still hear you moaning and feel you shiver underneath my touch. I still taste you on my tongue and imagine your fingers exploring me, taking me beyond all boundaries.
I still picture you on top of me, sliding your hardness inside me as I scream for more and drip in need. I can hear myself begging, clenching the sheets, grabbing you and pushing you in- harder, deeper, stronger- as if it’s do or die, as if it’s our last chance to enjoy each other, as if the sun will never rise again, and the world will come crashing down tonight.
Fuck, I miss you. I crave satisfying your most carnal needs, and possessing every ounce of pleasure you feel. I miss savoring you, caressing you and pleasing you.
Damn it, I miss riding the groans out of you.
You fucking own me; mind, body and soul.