Fit

She chalked the first one up to it being their first time. Memories of the kissing and the touching, echoes of the words “I love you” still fresh in her ears, the anticipation of knowing they would explore more that night - she was sure this was the cause for that instantaneous rush when he first slid inside of her. She felt his body against her, let her hands roam freely, and came again and again before he convulsed above her, crying out, muttering “Jesus Christ” as his body arched and twisted, trying to bury himself as deep inside of her as he could go. He lay there exhausted and in a daze, and she still shook as she stood, noticing the flush on her face in the mirror.


When it happened the next time, and the time after that, that slow build followed by the involuntary clenching of her muscles as he slowly entered her, his eyes locked on her face, smiling with her as she went over that edge, she knew it was more than a first time thing. He fit, as if his body was perfectly molded to hers on the inside, designed to touch every millimeter of nerve endings, and rest against her most sensitive spots. Again and again, she relished in that feeling each time they made love, and purposely took her time each time she sank down on him for the first time. The only thing better than savoring his body entering hers was watching his face as he reached his own climax, his cock buried inside of her, his hands on her hips as she slid against him, feeling him pulse as he cried out, abandoning herself to a final orgasm before she collapsed on top of him. Feeling him still inside of her, as the residual spasms subsided, she smiled into his shoulder. He fit.

* * * * *

In the dark before dawn, the images haunted her, and her hand moved feverishly to find that release. Craving that feel, that fit, that she could only get with him, her fingers worked through the wet folds and across her hardened clit, feeling it edge closer and closer, but not quite there. Frustrated, she sought more recent memories, ones she’d tried to fill that void with, and her orgasm inched closer, thinking of different hands and different mouths and different bodies. And then, at that critical moment, it was all him: his hardness buried inside of her, touching those nerve endings deep inside, fingertips digging into the soft skin of her hips, his eyes liquid blue, the curses falling in harsh whispers from his lips and filling the air between them, her release, timed with his, leaving her heart racing. Without realizing it, she cried out in the dark by herself as her fingers stroked and soothed her swollen lips, her other hand clutching the bed. Her ragged breathing turned into audible sobs, and tears wet the pillows.

* * * * *

The sun filtered in, rousing her from more images, and she could still feel the damp spots on her pillow. She lay in the silence listening and feeling. Her hand reached out into the empty spot, remembering how his warmth felt against the cool sheets. Her other hand rested against her chest, feeling the ache in her heart, as if missing a piece. She pressed her fingers into the soft flesh, until she met the resistance of her ribs, feeling her heart beat under them. She could almost feel the empty spot, a vacuum of emotion. Knowing that the only thing that would fill it – that would fit – was him.