Morning comes knocking. Half awake, you hit snooze three times. Every 8 minutes. Totaling 24 of utter denial. Two minutes later, you cave. Time’s run out from avoiding adulthood.
You shuffle beneath the duvet, exposing your arms to fresh air after being trapped for 9 hours.
Rolling over, you pull me towards you, grasping my body for support during the ultimate morning stretch. What could be better than the sweet satisfaction of a grand stretch and my body molding into yours before getting up? I shift back into you, your lower half stirs.
Lips separated, you exhale. Your warm breath wraps around the nape of my neck.
You kiss my bare shoulder. Goose bumps cover my left arm as your wet lips meet my skin.
I sigh quietly.
Up my ear you move.
I love to hear you moan.
Summer Fridays, home from work by 3 pm.
You sit at the dining table, finishing up some emails.
I’ve been home all day cooking your favorites. Pasta carbonara, lemon tart for dessert.
Your nose summons you to the kitchen; the smell of crispy bacon hypnotizes you.
Your broad frame sneaks up behind me, becomes my shadow.
Just a taste I remind you as you lean over me, having a cheeky bite of dinner long before it’s ready.
Your eyes roll back, head nodding with approval, licking the residue of the simmering creamy concoction off your lips.
A groan of satisfaction vibrates from your throat.
Fuck baby, that’s decadentyou mutter between mouthfuls of pasta.
I love to hear you moan.
Thanksgiving Day.
An argument over bringing pumpkin or apple pie to your boss’s house turns into an interrogation of what we want out of the relationship, what you’re unsure about.
You slam your whiskey on the table, the glass cracks.
I ask why we’re still together, you flail your arms around, incoherent, trying to answer the rhetorical question.
What do you want to fucking do you blurt out, liquor permeating from your breath.
Head down, I feel ashamed by your belligerence, now too drunk to drive, embarrassed by the broken glass. The spotlight is on me; I cower in fear, though my only audience member is you.
The whiskey finally hits- I feel fuzzy, giddy, brave.
You don’t know what the fuck you want shouts the Bulleit from my mouth, esophagus still burning from its pungency.
You move closer.
I hold onto the top of the dining chair for support.
Closer you get, you’re inebriated. But fuck, so am I.
You’re breathing heavily, so heavily; I can feel warm air pass through my lashes.
A staring contest, who will win? You used to always say my eyes were mysterious when I drank.
You grab the nape of my neck, push me into the wall where the kitchen and dining room meet, shoving your tongue into my mouth.
I push my hips into you as your lower half prods me; whiskey always made you ravenous, you eager fuck.
Where’d the time go? We’re gonna be late to this stupid fucking dinnerI think.
You pant. Your shirt is damp. My skirt lifts.
I fucking love to hear you moan.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/lczquv/i_love_to_hear_you_moan_mf