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You have lines of writing scribbled all over your skin; on your arms, your collarbone, your chest, your hip bones. He can’t stop writing when he feels like this and you are his page. You love it, you wouldn’t ask him to stop, not for anything.
His hands grip the skin on your back, fingers clenching as you move through him, back and forth. You can hear his gasps in your ear. You press your lips to his sweaty, freckled shoulder and then moan a little against him. You’re always louder than he is. His passion is held in gasps and sighs and breathy whispers, yours is let loose in moans and cries and sounds. You’re attuned to every noise he makes, though, and you can feel it as he builds closer and closer.
You’re close, too, and as you feel it coming, his hands slide up your back and into your hair, gripping it as though for balance. You let out more sounds and murmur to him that you love him.
Suddenly, he lets out a spew of whispered poetry in your ear and you smile because he doesn’t always do this, but when he does it means something.
You are mine, my lovely one,
Always.
And then he lets out a quiet moan and becomes still.
You’re right behind him, and when you’re spent, you collapse into him, panting and pressing wet kisses to his neck and chest. His fingers comb lovingly through your hair and eventually you lift your head to meet his tender gaze.
His eyes are heavy and warm as he smiles at you and pulls you toward him to lazily kiss your mouth.
“My lovely one,” he breathes again against your lips.
You reach up to brush your hand against his face and catch sight of a few words scrawled over your wrist. You love it when he does that, and you wouldn’t trade it for anywthing, and you also love him like this — speechless and tired, his mouth open to breathe, looking like a fucking Bernini sculpture come to life, his lips curled in smile at you.
He is your prince, your knight in shining armor, your morning star.
Your lovely one.