[ You are possibly the most breathtaking, utterly beautiful thing he's ever laid his eyes on. And you are his. For as long as he breathes, as long as his heart beats -- you're his. His shoulders have curled around you now, following the line of your body as he smooths his cum-slick palm over your stomach. His free arm has wrapped around your torso, holding you up and keeping you close as he whispers kisses along your temple. ]
I've got you, babe, [ he sighs. ] I'm right here.
[ You feel of you slumped against him, all pliant limbs and warm flesh makes something click into place and he moves gently, rearranging your limbs and easing you down onto the mattress before he starts to pile a handful of pillows together.
His attention doesn't stray very long from you, even as he manages to do all that: his body covers yours, his lips meet your lips, breathing in the air from your lungs and offering his own for you to take. His actions in the aftermath of your lovemaking have always leaned towards tenderness, as if by touch alone he would like to lull you to sleep while he kept whatever nightmares you've had at bay.
He offers you that familiarity now, even as he picks you up, sets you back against the softness and the sheets, body pulling away just briefly enough as he tugs loose one of the bindings on those drapes, letting the curtain fall to obscure the view of one side of your room.
You are free to watch the way he's measuring that cord in his hands as he shifts towards you, weight on his knees. There's a look on his face: thoughtful, considering -- but he doesn't utter a word. Not to ask if this would be okay, not to tell you what he plans to do. Technically love, he doesn't really have to, does he? You got a pretty glimpse of it earlier. ]
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I've got you, babe, [ he sighs. ] I'm right here.
[ You feel of you slumped against him, all pliant limbs and warm flesh makes something click into place and he moves gently, rearranging your limbs and easing you down onto the mattress before he starts to pile a handful of pillows together.
His attention doesn't stray very long from you, even as he manages to do all that: his body covers yours, his lips meet your lips, breathing in the air from your lungs and offering his own for you to take. His actions in the aftermath of your lovemaking have always leaned towards tenderness, as if by touch alone he would like to lull you to sleep while he kept whatever nightmares you've had at bay.
He offers you that familiarity now, even as he picks you up, sets you back against the softness and the sheets, body pulling away just briefly enough as he tugs loose one of the bindings on those drapes, letting the curtain fall to obscure the view of one side of your room.
You are free to watch the way he's measuring that cord in his hands as he shifts towards you, weight on his knees. There's a look on his face: thoughtful, considering -- but he doesn't utter a word. Not to ask if this would be okay, not to tell you what he plans to do. Technically love, he doesn't really have to, does he? You got a pretty glimpse of it earlier. ]