He’s chanting my name into the pillow like I’m a god. Sometimes he makes me feel like one. And even though it’s reckless, even though it’s fucking pointless, I can’t stop myself from whispering into his skin, “I love you.” For a moment, every inch of him freezes—but there’s no ice to it, somehow, and a second later, he’s relaxed again. He lifts his hips and fucks himself back on me, and we both make this low, strangled sound of pleasure at the same time. Being inside him is like touching the centre of the earth. Being with him in any way is like dying and going to heaven. Olu is everything.
