You could say that everything with me and Brian started with sex. And ended with sex. And had sex somewhere in the middle.

Tangled in crisp white sheets. The clatter of passing traffic drifting through the open window. Tussling, limbs quivering from effort. And a part of me thinks that we shouldn’t still be doing this, not now, not now that we are partners, lovers, equals. And then Brian licks behind my ear and nudges my shoulder and whispers “Roll over”, his voice deep and husky with need, and I roll over. Like I have every time before, like I will every time he asks.

And I love it. It has nothing to do with being partners or being equals, it has to do with the undeniable fact that I love the feel of his cock inside me. Anywhere inside me. I love the stretch and pull as he eases into me; I love the way he fills me up and makes me strain and arch against him; I love being covered by him, wrapped up in him, slick with sweat, feeling him pound against me. I love his dick in my mouth, throbbing against my tongue, Brian’s back arching up from the mattress as I suck him inside. The tug of his fingers in my hair. Knowing that I am the only one who can get him off like that. Just. Like. That.

It started with sex, but now it ends with this: lazy Sunday mornings, trips to the deli, cold pasta in bed, kisses at the departure gate that burn like summer sunsets and hold us over until we can do it all over again.