You’ve Missed Her
You kiss her like you mean it; like you’re hungry for her lips to press and caress and move against yours. Your hands can’t help but roam as you do, stroking up and down her arms at first, but they soon move – as though they have a life of their own – to trail a finger against her cheek, to grapple and grab and yank her hair, to lightly-but-firmly grasp around her neck …
You’ve missed her.
You want her to look at you in that way she always did: with eyes so big and bright and blue that you’d like to dive into them and swim around forever. And for her to make you feel the way she always made you feel: like you were powerful and forceful and dominant and strong. She was and always will be an addiction for you. More than sex. More than love. More than lust. Your attraction to her was bigger and bolder and stronger than those things — and you think it’s the same for her, too.
So, you kiss her.
You kiss her again and again and again and again, on her lips and her neck, her cheek and her shoulder, her forehead and her nose. You are delicate and soft, but then you’re vicious and hard. A bite here, a nibble there, a gentle tug of her lip between your teeth as you back away. You remember how she likes it; how she likes you to switch things up between fast and slow, hard and soft, full-on and held back. “I get bored too easily,” she warned you, but you were never bored of her. And you made sure that she was never bored of you … in between the sheets, at least.
You ponder about the past with her.
“Do you remember when you slid to your knees right there on the floor?” you ask, planting a kiss on her skin between the words, each one in a different spot to the one before. The top of her head, her right shoulder, the dip at the bottom of her throat, and that space where her tattoo starts between her breasts. You’d always loved that naughty little glimpse of what lay beneath the surface of her. Few of her tattoos were visible above her clothes, but in the right shirt and the right bra, at the right angle, you could just see that little splash of bright red, luring you in to find out what it leads to.
And instead of answering your question with words, she does what she always does: she surprises you. She slides to her knees right there on the floor, taking you in her soft hands and cramming you into her mouth and throat. It’s as though she wants to completely consume you, devour every last drop of you, voraciously drink you up …
You have no choice but to let her.
Because you don’t want to stop her. You don’t have it in you to stop her. You’re putty in her hands just as much as she’s putty in yours. And as she pumps and licks and swallows you, wolfing you down like she’s been starved for years, you release yourself: your cum, your orgasm, your everything.
You’ve really fucking missed her.
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