“Is this okay,” he whispered.
“Shhh,” I said back to him, keeping my eyes closed. “Don´t talk.”
His mouth returned to mine, our tongues seeking the other, like children playing a familiar game. His hand moved from my thigh to my waist, gliding underneath my shirt and towards my breasts. My nipples were erect already, and his touch was soft and gentle, like he always was. Lawrence was never rough with me in bed, not like Erik and Beate. Sometimes I criticized him for this lack of aggression in the past, my sexual apetite always seeming to be greater than his, more insatiable. Perhaps this was why we were splitting up, ultimately; maybe we were just never going to be a good match in bed. I need sex frequently, a little rough, and definitely a little more spicey. Preferably, I want all of the above, as often as possible. With Lawrence, though, he seemed content with it happening or not, as if its presence or absence were equally lacking in impact to his evaluation of the relationship´s success. And yet, here he was, hungrily kissing my mouth, his hand fondling my breast, causing sparks to fly down in the bottom of my body and heart. After all of the stress and drama of the past couple of days, tenderly making out with the father of our child on the sofa seemed more than okay. People in AA would probably call this “acting out,” but I didn't care. Tonight, right now, I wanted to just fuck and forget for a while.
5376 words (FF, MF)
Cover art by Robert Flynt
top of page