His hair is just the way I like it: missing the gel locking each curl in place. The messiness masks his squinty, brown eyes, and fares well with his smooth torso and toned arms. He looks wild and rough as he pins me to the bed, pushing my hands over my head.
Our eyes lock, while he enters from above -- “You’re beautiful” -- he says (like it was normal), while thrusting his cock deeper inside me. Fuck.
I bite down on my tongue then screech -- “I hate you” -- as my hands unlock, calmly grabbing his shoulders, pulling his sweaty body to mine. Hips aligned, the harder he pushes the more tears brim in the corner of my eyes.
-- “Faster”-- the more he works, the closer we'll be. He won’t see the emotion on my face. The fear and tears that involuntarily spawned from his words.
I'm moaning loud now, telling him to continue, saying just what he wants to hear, but really, trying to cover his whispers in my ear, “I've missed you.”
You always say you miss me when I am right here.
“You’re beautiful”-- repeating that look, that phrase in my head. Only now, she is the recipient and you actually mean it. Is that why she stays?
In her naivety she doesn’t know where your dick has been. And in my knowing weakness, I still take you back.
I cannot trust you like she can. I am not blissful in ignorance. I am always second choice. ...But you won't let me go and the sex is too good (just don't tell me I'm beautiful again).