He and I are in love; it’s so hot and so strange.

He wants to know what I’m thinking when we’re making love—where I go when I go quiet.

He looks me in the eye when he asks this and it pulls me back to him—back to the present, the way wine or spirits pull the stories we never intended to tell.

To answer him, to coherently tell the places my mind visits while he touches me, from this place—from within—is difficult. It arrests my intoxication momentarily while I shift to cognition.

Matters of the soul and mind sometimes disagree with each other. My mind wants to do the work he’s asked of me, but the rest of me wants to stay soul-deep with him. Always him.

He stirs a little, moving around the depths of me, to remind me he hasn’t left.

He is still here, where I crave him most, at the tip of everything.

I feel the tips of his fingers. I feel the tip of his nose while he hovers his lips just above mine. I feel the tip of him below, filled with honey, pushing gently against the tip of me.

I’m not the first person he’s loved, but he is mine. And I’ve finally returned to him—the rightful owner.

Our love came unexpectedly in the middle of a night long ago. I don’t remember much from that time in my life, but I do remember, in rich detail, the way his touch felt on my tender skin.

And his kisses.

And other things.

Yes, I remember all of those delicious other things, like a gentle sin committed in full view of their costs.