Sometimes

Sometimes there's only this. His fingers gripped around her waist, his dick deep inside of her, hard frantic thrusts against the wall, on the floor, perched onto the bathroom counter.

Sometimes there's desperate need, driving her to distraction until he's pressing her into the mattress and she's drowning in waves of sensation, gasping for breath, losing her thoughts, her sorrows, everything but the feel of him.

Sometimes there's quiet. Laced fingers and solemn whispers of love. The brush of his lips painting her skin with wide strokes of sensation, whirls of need and desire; entire landscapes of feelings adorning the lines and curves of her body.

Sometimes there are words, love letters written onto her skin.

Sometimes there is fire. The surge of her hips pursuing his tongue when he licks, strokes; caresses softly, presses hard, a consuming maelstrom until she's burning hot; falls to ashes, limp and spent.

Sometimes there is ice, cold trickles running over flushed skin; warmed chocolate droplets that he sips from the dips and valleys of her body; blindfolds and scarves and teasing strips of lace that don't stay on for long.

Sometimes there is joy; grins and giggles and peals of laughter; smiles that stretch wide, crinkle the corners of her eyes, spill right from her heart.

Sometimes there are tears. Wells of emotion that gurgle, geyser to the surface, pushed up from her depths by the sheer force of his love driven into her, filling her, spilling over; tears that he sips from her cheeks, calms with the whispers of his fingertips.

Sometimes there are screams, her voice foreign to her as she clenches, quakes, falls apart; arms and legs tight around him, holding on, an impermeable embrace as she pulls him with her to oblivion.

Sometimes there are scratches. Nails dug into his ass, racing down his back; thumb prints bruised into her thighs and teeth marks on his shoulders.

Sometimes there are lingering caresses; strokes that whisper across sensitive planes of skin, every touch filled with quiet wonder, marveling at where they are, what they've become; amazed by their own brand of magic.

Sometimes there are kisses, mouths brushing in breathy, yearning caresses, and eyes that are open; darkened pupils speaking wordless promises.

But always. Always, there's love.