I don’t remember how we got home. All I know is that we’d both had far too much to drink and were still quietly annoyed at each other over a pointless fight we’d long since lost the thread of. As I kicked off my shoes, he locked the door behind us, and before I knew it my back was against the hallway wall, his strong hands pinning both my shoulders, his face centimeters from mine as he leaned his forehead gently against it.

His drunken flush still colored his cheeks, and the soft scent of warm bourbon and vanilla drifted from his breath, mingling with mine. The suddenness of it stole my breath as I reoriented myself to what was happening.
“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” he asked, his eyes dropping to my lips, waiting.

“Prove me wrong,” I whispered, the heat of the drinks still coursing through my blood. I blushed harder as he pressed his body against mine, an unfamiliar shyness taking hold as I tried to look away, trying to hide my growing want.
Refusing to be denied, he caught my chin and turned my face back to his. In a deep, steady voice he said, “I can do one better…” Then he leaned in and whispered against my ear, “…I can make you beg me not to stop.” He nibbled my earlobe, and I began to melt into him, my knees weakening, and he sensed the surrender spreading through me.

I breathed into his ear, “Don’t start unless you intend to finish.” He took it almost as a challenge. He pulled away from my ear and kissed me hard, pressing me into the wall with enough force to practically suspend me there — a feat in itself. I kissed him back with the same fervor: messy, hungry, feeling his heartbeat thumping hard beneath his fingertips. Before I knew what was happening, we had torn off our clothes as if they were on fire and were scorching our skin, finding our way to the couch, both of us practically naked, neither of us caring. This was our space, and we were finally alone.

Earlier that night, we had spent hours in the company of mutual associates — eating, drinking, laughing — while he watched protectively as male colleagues joked with me. I always kept a respectable distance, but his possessive streak crept in anyway, like a snake waiting to strike. Before a situation could turn uncomfortable, he’d come up behind me and loop an arm around my waist, his way of marking his territory. Most men got the hint.

I can’t say I was any different. I’d occasionally be put off by the forwardness of certain women when it came to him. No matter how often he’d rebuff them, redirect their attention toward friendship, mention his unavailability, or excuse himself to join me in the crowd, some still tested the waters, seeing me as a weaker rival, never understanding the level of loyalty we had for each other.

His resolve was not to be trifled with, nor was his obsession — and my focus on him was tunnel vision. No matter the temptation, I could see nothing but him. Our desires for each other were equally matched, and our energy ran like a feedback loop, each feeding the other on endless repeat. Anything or anyone who tried to break it was guaranteed to fail.

Now, in private, in our home, we no longer had to hide from prying eyes. The real feast was about to begin, and that kiss had been only an appetizer. He sat on the couch and had me straddle him, facing him, my hands cradling his face. He loved looking at me this way. His hands wrapped around my hips as he looked up at me like I was some kind of angel. My hair cascaded over my shoulders and over us both, a curtain shielding us. He pulled me closer and said in his rich voice, “I was dying to get you alone. I almost couldn’t take it.” I leaned down and kissed him where he sat. “I know. I wanted to leave early. All I could think about was what you did to me this morning, and I was hoping for another round or two.” He began to chuckle.

Before we’d left that morning, he had made me swear repeatedly, in several different languages, call out the name of Christ more than once, practically lose all sense of up and down, and nearly lose my voice from begging him not to stop. It took several sports drinks and almost a gallon of water before we were functional enough to walk out the door.

He smiled a wry smile as he remembered that morning. He pulled my face closer and said, “Come here,” before kissing me. His other hand slipped inside my panties, finding my softest place. As my breathing quickened, his fingers grew slick with my arousal. He stopped kissing me and watched my eyes close as I focused on the sensation, my hips working in time with his fingers. He loved watching me surrender to his touch, hearing my breathing go shallow, knowing I was getting close. He was a quick study and had learned fast what made me fall apart fastest. He loved that power. And where I could read him like a book, he could dismantle me physically like no man before.

Before I crested, he slowed and took my face in his other hand. “Baby, not yet.” He moved me off his lap and laid me on the couch, slid off my panties, and positioned himself between my thighs. He wanted to savor it, as he often did. With anyone else he knew he had the upper hand, but with me, this was the only stretch where he’d have the advantage. He had learned early that once we were joined, his dominance over me was over. He’d thought he had bound me to him after the first night, never realizing until it was too late that it was he who would succumb to me. My body, my spirit, felt like home to him, and there was no going back.

He had replayed the taste of me on his tongue for hours, and now he found himself ravenous again, his mouth between my thighs, his lips sending ripples through my body. It was sweet torture. He’d bring me so close to the edge that I started crying out his name, then hold back, inching me closer, back and forth, until I took over and moved my hips to meet his tongue, gripping his hair as I came completely undone. While the shockwaves rolled through me, he slid off his underwear, exposing himself, fully erect, impressive, and waiting. As much as he loved it when I reciprocated, tonight all he wanted was to lose himself in my soft body. He wanted to serve, not be serviced. He wanted to know, in his spirit, that every man who had flirted with me that night would never get the chance.

He knew it was pride. He knew it was fear. But his nervous system needed certainty. He didn’t know how to say what he felt without sounding weak, so he showed me instead — with his mouth, with his hands, with the way he held me like I belonged to him. Because when it came down to it, he hated how much he needed me. He hated that it scared him. But he needed me anyway. And every chance he got, he gave me so much that I couldn’t doubt him even if I tried. So much that I’d never forget him.

As he positioned himself over me, I placed my hands on his cheeks and pulled him into a kiss. He leaned down and adjusted himself, sliding inside my hot, wet core. We both drew a sharp breath as he settled in fully, my walls adjusting to his impressive size, burying himself to the hilt. The feeling of being there, the fluttering of my walls, the delicious pressure, knowing it was me, made him practically lose himself. “Oh god,” he growled, his entire body tingling as if lit from within. We kissed deeply as his full weight came down on me. Soon he was moving inside me and my body was succumbing to the sensation. My fingers dug into his back as I watched his eyes lock onto my face — the drunkenness of the alcohol gone, replaced by a drunkenness of the moment. He had learned every position, every rhythm that sent me over the edge, and he held himself back, insisting on taking me over the edge. Every orgasm he triggered quieted his fears; every passionate cry of his name as I rode the aftershocks steeled his resolve. And the more he held back, the more intense his own release would become. Every new position — sideways, from behind, folding me over, straddling him — drew from my lips a new chorus of pleasure, and brought him closer to his own mind-blowing release.

Soon he whispered that he was close, and I started encouraging him to come. I could see in his eyes that he was focused on the sensation, his thrusts growing deeper and more insistent. I was nearing my own edge again and knew that if I finished with him, the pressure of my orgasm would intensify his, so I kept begging him to come. Just as he did, he took my face in both hands and pulled me into a deep kiss, our hips meeting in rapid succession, breaking for a few seconds when his body tensed as hot ropes of his essence released into me. His body shook and tensed again, over and over, as the waves kept rolling through him, resetting his entire nervous system until he finally went slack.

We laughed as we looked at each other, forgetting what we had been angry about. I held him in my arms, enjoying the weight of his body on mine, while he was comforted by my softness. Soon after, he pulled out, and we lay on the couch together, me snuggled in his arms, both of us still naked and sweaty. Before we were together, there had been countless nights when he’d imagined this exact scene — me in his arms after a night of passion — and now he was living it. The contentment in his heart was overwhelming as he pulled me closer and kissed the top of my head. Despite all his fears of not being enough, of hurting me, of his own selfishness, of how badly he wanted me, and worse, of failing me, he was here now, living his fantasy, and for the moment, that was enough. He lay there, feeling my heartbeat and breath fall into time with his own, and said a silent thanks to God that he was here, in this moment, with me.