Drop Dead

His angular hips fit surprisingly well between my thighs, I'd never pegged him to be a gentle lover, and he certainly was not. His trusts were past the point of erratic, and his need to feel every piece of me imaginable was almost overwhelming. His name slid past my lips in a breath of hot air, as his hands gripped me tightly against my thighs and he drove even deeper within me, biting down where my neck met my shoulders, bruising the tender skin.

I had never assumed he would be so shy with me during the many times that followed our first exhilarating coupling. He always asked permission and never ceased to apologize when, in the heat of passion, his lips would brush against mine.

That was a rule between us, the only rule. No kissing.

I had never really admitted to being a kisser to him. That was one decency I refused to lose or take from him. My kisses were for my 'someone', his for his own.

It was never a thought that crossed either of our minds that we could possibly be each others 'someone'. We were too much alike. We never fought about anything serious or lasting.

Based on past experiences, we'd both acquired the modern knowledge that without complications, love can't last.

We didn't want a relationship out of each other, anyway. Starting one would be difficult, especially considering he was already in in a particularly nasty relationship already, the same one he's still in.

A relationship would have ruined our passion for each others flesh, we were both convinced.

After that first time, incoherent from an extreme amount of alcohol, sinfully naked and blissfully aware of who we were, any time we were alone together, we'd get at it. At the house we were looking after, my parent's home, our friends' houses, my brother's apartment.

We'd even gone so far as to announce our agreement to anyone who wouldn't judge us for it.

According to many of our friends, it had been easy to tell we were in love by anyone but ourselves.

Maybe it was a love for the flesh, perhaps it went deeper than that.

I knew everything about him and accepted him for it, expecting nothing out of him. He took care of me, whether he knew it or not. He told me, from the way he looked at me and the sensual murmurs he'd whisper when he'd let his guard down that I was beautiful, that I was worth something to him.

Perhaps under better circumstances, maybe if we had been a bit older, more mature in the situation, something more could have come from it.

There was a time when I blindly questioned his roughness for inexperience. Now I long for those harsh, home-driving thrusts.

His ex girlfriend, my now best friend, said he was always gentle with her. He never murmured promises of a world where everything had a place and made sense into her ears as he ravished her. He kissed her with a soft, loving ferocity. He treated her as if she would break if he were to exert too much pressure on her.

Maybe our lovemaking was meant to be different. Perhaps he wanted the feeling to last in the bruises we'd both sustained from the intense passion. He respected my permissions and my refusals. He never worried I would break.

I was his equal.
Anything he could sustain, I could as weal.
No questions asked.