The Way We Take Each Other

The moment the door shuts, it changes— Eyes locked, breathing quickens, hands already hungry. You pull me in like gravity, mouth on mine, hard and deep, tongues clashing, teasing, tasting. We don’t speak—there’s no time. Clothes fall fast. Buttons pop, zippers hiss, fabric slides from skin like we’ve done this in dreams a thousand times. Your fingers trace fire down my spine, and I swear, I’m already shaking. I press you back, lips on your neck, your chest, my name escaping your mouth in a broken whisper as my hands find all the places you ache to be touched. You pull me in—tight— legs wrapped, hips rising, and suddenly, we’re moving in rhythm like our bodies have always known this song. It’s slow at first, just enough to make us beg— then faster, deeper, harder. Nails in backs, teeth on lips, gasps turn to groans, to cries we try—and fail—to muffle. Every thrust is a promise, every grip is a plea, every sound says don’t stop, not yet. You break apart beneath me, trembling, eyes wide, moaning through the fall— and I follow, losing myself in the heat, in the way you clench, in the way we come undone together. And after— we don’t speak, we just breathe, bodies slick, tangled,