A long time ago

I remember his lips. Very well. The way they felt on mine, on my skin, the way his hands felt.

It was so long ago, our fumbling mistakes and miscommunications. Our perfect kisses and not-so-perfect orgasms.

One night, though, when we kissed for hours until our lips were bruised, our bodies pressed together, even when we moved and shifted positions we didn't lose that contact, as much of his skin on mine as we could possibly get, and we ended with him behind me, his arms so close, his lips on my ear and his fingers on me, moving slipperysmooth and his whispers against me.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Nothing I've ever felt has topped that. Never.

He was so fucking beautiful. And so very much mine.