Baby, tell me you want it deeper, I don’t ever wanna come out, put you in a coma, yeah a sleeper. – “Feel It”, Jacquees featuring Rich Homie Quan and Lloyd.
I love how he’s always ready for me. I don’t have to do much, just a slight touch like so and…
Oh yeah, he’s ready. I pull my hand away slowly and let it rest on his thick thigh and look over at him. He catches my eye, his dark eyes go even darker, like he’s ready to pounce.
I watch as the thin line of smoke escapes his lips into the dark and humid night. He flicks the end of his smoke out the driver window and turns to face me. He moves closer and puts his hand on my hip.
I take his hand and move it in between my legs, over the flimsy material of my cotton dress.
Oh it’s like that?
I smile and he bends down to kiss me, the unmistakable taste of the weed he’s been smoking on his tongue. I inhale him, his own scent mingled with the weed and the last remnants of his after-shave.
It’s like that.
His kisses are savage-like and unadulterated. Ardent, like a fucking fire you need to extinguish.
I tell him this and he says:
It’s you. You alone do this.
This. This what? Lovemaking. This fucking? My mind is always in a constant battle…
Lovers love. What is this? This is sex. We’re fucking. There’s no feelings…
He moves quickly and pulls me on top of him and slips himself in between my thighs. Perfect match.
I feel him.
I feel the pounding of his heart over mine. I feel his mouth on my skin. Warm and wet. I’m trying not to feel, but motherfucker, do I ever feel…
I feel his hands on my face, my neck, my shoulders…I feel…
And as he’s kissing my mouth, calling me “baby”…
I don’t want to, I really want to avoid this feeling, but I’m unable, not wanting to fucking feel this man and all he does to me, I’m not wanting these feelings, but I can’t resist him, I can’t leave him alone and all I do is….feel….
….his hands in my hair. And then…
…his hands on my throat. God.
…his warm breath in my ear. Why does this feel so good?
…his length deep inside me. Fuck me.
Why then, why does he touch me with these goddamn big hands like this?
Why, why does he push his body into mine like this?
Why does he press my breasts into his chest like this?
And why, dear Jesus, why does he kiss my forehead so tenderly? Why does he rock into me, while he stares down at my face like this, speaking to me like:
That mouth baby…
Why does he stare into my eyes, waiting, wanting, asking for this pleasure that’s his, this pleasure that’s mine, this pleasure he gives me, so right, just like this, so lovely, ever so lovely?
Look at me…
He says. He tells me to look at him. Fuck.
Don’t look away. Look at me.
And I’m shaking my head, avoiding his stare. I know it’s time. I feel it. He brought me here.
Let it go baby. Don’t fight it. Give it to me…
And I swear his voice is an aphrodisiac, because right then, I can’t help it, I can’t control it, I’m staring into his eyes and gasp as if something struck my heart and he smiles and lets go with me, as if he had this planned, as if this was his purpose, as if this is meant to be…
And as if he’s trying to fuck with my head and heart further, he whispers:
I feel you.