i have mentioned i like morning ***.

but i have forgotten to talk about *** late at night. after one am. when you’re drunk. when you’re sober. when all you can hear is the sighs of the mattress and the far distant squalls in the streets, the sirens mewling past as your cries muffle into blackness.

the later the better, for you tend to hold on tighter, curl your legs behind his knees until he buckles. your name from his lips sounds like rainstorms. it is when your inner demons are released.
when his fingers dig deeper, his teeth scrape harder. he pulls until your scalp is burning, throttles until nothing but spit emanates.  
it is dangerous, it is lovely, it is living. you bite each other’s lips until you taste nothing but him, guzzling him until your internals are churning and gushing with him. you remember thinking how one drunken night at three am was enough.
but then he came again at four. then he came again at five.
and it was at seven in the morning when you were covered in his crux you couldn’t turn away. you wanted the morning ***, you wanted the late night ***. you wanted to be flooded and whisked until your
body was nothing but his
testimony.