June First

by Jennifer Hartmann

And when I finally sink my cock into her, my own desperation blinding me, I gather her closer than ever, our faces a whisper apart, our bodies slick and tangled. She whimpers as I move, slow and deep, rocking against her as our eyes remain locked. Then I say it: “Junebug.” Her whimpers morph into a startled cry. Something like disbelief. Glorious disbelief. My arms cage her in as I hover over her, fingers twining through her hair, my hips pumping, languid yet fervent. “You were right,” I confess, my lips caressing hers as I feel her thighs cling tighter around me. “That name didn’t come from innocence or some kind of familial connection. It was born out of love. My love for you.” Her eyes glaze with tears, her hands gripping my shoulders. She nods as breathy little sounds spill out of her. “And maybe that love has evolved and blossomed over the years, but it still comes from the same place. And that place is beautiful. That place is pure.” Wetness stains her cheeks, her lips trembling. “You’re my Junebug,” I tell her, sweeping back the strands of hair matted to her forehead. I kiss her hairline. “You’ll always be my Junebug.” She sniffles, sucking in a shuddering breath. “You mean it?” “Of course I mean it.”