Dawson's Ink

It was never about love with her. Just a lust that permeated everything she touched. Made her wanted. Made her beautiful. Made it clear that she could never be just mine. She was at one with the world, made her presence felt. She was a walking contradiction. Statuesque, yet only 5 feet 3. Dramatic, yet somehow still as laid back as a beach recliner. Always around, yet just out of reach. It’s those many sides that made every man want her. Made every woman a jealous mess.

Made her what I ’sai.’

She wore her heart on her sleeve. Very visible each time we were together. She poured it out to me, making me feel like I was her confider. Her vault. Told me things about her past, and her future. Things that made me want her more. Made me feel like every tomorrow would be spent with her.

And those eyes, they told me things she couldn’t say. When they were bright, I could feel her warmth. When they held tears, I could feel her pain. I could see myself in them. Her story was just like mine. We wanted it all. Wanted it now. Once we started talking, we’d go on for hours. What seemed like forever. Couldn’t get enough. We talked about everything except us. She and I. Her and me.

Those were the words that we could not ’sai.’

Our chemistry was like high school science: no one really understood what it meant, and never thought it would end. Our thoughts walked together. In step. Like our kisses, which served as rapid ignitions, the sparks from which put our bodies on alert. The perfect foreplay. Seamless. We’d always make love like it was the last time. Like nothing after it was guaranteed. We’d lose ourselves in the moment. Find ourselves in the rhythm.

We’d spend sleepless nights where anything and everything we did was never enough. And then, just like that, it’d be over. I’d watch her leave. Knowing she’d be back. Knowing that the next session, the next time I saw her would be even better than the last.

It’s what we had. It’s who we were. Who we continue to be to this day. She’s my one and only. The one I want. The one who never gets enough of seeing me. Talking to me. Sexing me. In my own way, I give her what she needs, even though it could never be enough. I could never fill her.

Nope. Not my ‘Insatiable.’

Popularity: 16% [?]