He touches my belly. I love that. There’s no tentative uncertainty as to what’s allowed and what isn’t. I have given him permission to my body, and he accepts and trusts that.
He tells me I’m sexy. And somehow I actually believe him when he says it. With such authentic conviction it’s impossible not to.
He fucks me exactly how I love. Rough, hands pulling hair, on my throat. But it was when he spit on my face that I truly melted.
He says he wants to learn me. What I like. What turns me on. It’s impossible to explain that everything turns me on. It’s the way it all comes so naturally to him and he doesn’t even realise. It’s just a matter of him learning to trust himself and that it’s there, between us, already. His touch. That look he gets.
I lay awake next to him wondering what he sees in me. The thing that he seems to revere so much. I can’t see it. But somehow he manages to make me trust that there’s something there.
