You reached with certainty, as if you'd studied my skin long before our hands ever touched. No fear. Just knowing.
We moved slow, not out of caution, but to taste every second like it was gospel poured from a cracked bottle.
You pressed against me, not hard, but whole. Chest to chest, breath syncing, a rhythm we didn’t learn but recognized in our bones.
Fingertips made circles, small and deliberate, as if they were writing scripture in flesh and memory. I answered in low vowels, open-palmed and unguarded.
The bed welcomed us, an altar already blessed, creased sheets echoing rituals, springs tuned to our rhythms.
Kisses landed where language failed, soft declarations etched into collarbones, the curve of spine, the held breath behind a quiet moan.
You whispered through clenched teeth, not out of restraint but reverence, as if the act itself demanded silence to be truly understood.
Limbs tangled, not in conquest, but in communion. What we shared had gravity, pulling confessions from every nerve, truths we hadn’t known we needed to speak.
When stillness found us, we lay in the wreckage of something beautifully undone, your pulse pressed into mine, our names somewhere in the ceiling where the echoes hadn’t quite settled.
We touched, the first time since... - Why do I feel so tearful?