I know I’m dripping obscenely onto the conference table, and I pray nobody sitting here will be able to see the imprint of our passion on the rich mahogany. With his hand still in a tight fist tangled in my hair, he lifts my mouth up to his and swallows my desperate moans. We share breaths. My inhale is his exhale. He’s drinking in the noises I’m making like they’re a symphony made just for him.
