Page 45 of David's Proposal

There are things I refuse to think about.

His connection to my circle. And Rain, in particular. His history with women. The fact that this is temporary, and it has no future.

But even with all these negatives, he has a way of making me feel safe as if all these things have no power over us. Can’t touch us. Let alone destroy us.

It’s fleeting, but it’s good.

Maybe his experience talks and that’s what makes our dynamic so smooth.

I can’t tell where his experience ends and where the real David Moore begins. I wish I had a man like him before.

Perhaps I'll meet someone like him after we’re done with each other.

For now, I enjoy my intense orgasm, holding onto the memory of him.

He doesn’t stop stroking my clit with his tongue and lips and sucking on it, not even when I scale down.

He only treats me with gentleness when my flesh becomes sensitive and longing, and then he smoothly helps me to transition from a beautiful, brutal ending to wanting him again.

When my eyelids get heavy again, and slide to half mast, and my breaths are ragged and shallow, he grabs his hard–on and leisurely grounds himself in my deepest depths while I cling onto him, my arms lopped around his muscular neck.

We’re no longer connected in that beautiful, friendly, playful way.

His breaths fan over my temple, and the ceiling is my view while he moves on top of me. And this part of our story is his, and his alone.

The pleasure still snakes through my body, wrapping around me, making me sweat under him, but my frame is entirely his as he grips me harshly and pumps me harder than he’s done it before.

There is pleasure in the act, even without the emotional connection.

There is satisfaction in feeling him so worked up, so hungry to possess me.

There is power in disconnecting while sharing our dirty little secret.

There is freedom and no pressure.

I like how he fucks me. It’s purely a primal thing.

Once the expectations have been removed, there is not much left besides the need to break me physically.

To make me take it.

And I do.

I indulge in every thrust, groan, and merciless grip.

I revel in how he picks up the pace, has no limits, and no restrains. How he fucks me with recklessness for his own pleasure.

He’s done that before, and it’s his signature thing.

And even so, it’s more than the blank emotional canvas I have experienced with other men before.

There’s honesty in his desire, and I appreciate that.

Ironically, the thought that this lustful rage against me doesn’t come with a lyrical, poetic love story puts me in the mood again.

My nails dig into his back, and there is something so intimate in doing that.

I may fool myself into believing this is as cut and dry as I see it. Sex for pleasure. And the pleasure of having sex.

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