I lie next to you, freshly fucked, mascara ruined, lips sore, skin touching skin, surrounded by the pages of writing that you swept off my desk, my stories, my words, such pretty words, wrapped around us like a lustful silk.
The rush of cold air biting at my nakedness as you lean away, finding the little bottle of ink that had fallen to the floor when you unbuttoned my filthy pleasure, and you coat your thumb pad in the blackest of inks before pressing it firmly against my hip bone, the concentration on your face a melody of intensity and pure sex, marking me with your fingerprint. How utterly fucking romantic, I thought, right before I remember writing this exact scene. Right before remembering that you are the man that I created with my pretty words.
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AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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