The first time you told me, “I like it rough,” we were in our hotel room overlooking the Strip.
You were just *slightly* tipsy on mini champagne bottles, the effervescent bubbles still popping on your lips while you nuzzled my neck. I’m surprised I didn’t ejaculate right there, with the hair-raising goosebumps of *possibility*, leaving you to discover a warm pool of semen spreading across my dark denim.
Instead, I said quite matter-of-factly, “Oh yeah?” in the cool, comfortable baritone that I know makes you want to go off the pill. But, as I unhooked my belt, I pushed a little further, “You don’t even know what rough *is*.”
You bit your bottom lip, did that cute little nod, and then titled your head to the side. Of course it drives me wild when you play dumb. Your hand–so small and cold and *weak*–grasped mine. You laced your short digits through my long ones and brought my palm to your neck. And you just barely whispered, *”It’s like this”*. And it was the hottest thing you’ve ever done.