Behir 18+

Only You ~

When his mouth reached my collarbone, I gasped. When he traced a scar on my stomach, I flinched-but he only kissed it again. He never made me feel like I had to perform. I didn't have to hide my belly or turn off the light.

I wanted him to see all of me.

I undressed him slowly, too. His chest was firm but not sculpted. His skin was warm and smelled of soap and sandalwood. I kissed down his throat, tasting the heat of his pulse. He groaned-low, breathy. My name on his lips sounded like worship.

When he finally entered me, it wasn't just physical. It felt like he was sinking into a place I had locked up for years.

He moved slowly. Deeply. Our fingers intertwined. Our eyes stayed open.

There were moans and gasps and stifled cries. His forehead against mine. My back arched. Our bodies rising and falling like waves finding their rhythm. He whispered my name like a promise.

And when I came, I didn't hold back. I didn't silence myself or rush. I let go, trembling under him, his hands holding me like I was something precious.

Afterward, we lay tangled, my head on his chest, his thumb drawing circles on my bare shoulder.

"I didn't know sex could feel like this," I whispered.

"It's not sex," he said, brushing his lips against my hair. "It's you. It's us."

---

That night was only the beginning.

Our bodies became fluent in each other. I learned the language of his breath. He learned the rhythm of my sighs. Some nights were wild-fingers digging into backs, hips colliding, laughter muffled by sheets. Other nights, it was soft, slow, aching with sweetness. Every time felt new.

I loved the way he explored me.

His mouth trailing down my back. His teeth grazing my inner thigh. The way he'd kiss me between slow thrusts, making me lose track of time. He would whisper poems between kisses. Tell me how beautiful I looked with flushed skin and half-lidded eyes.

I learned how to drive him crazy too.

How to take control. Pin his wrists. Slide my hands down his chest. Tease him with my mouth until he begged-yes, he actually begged-for release.

We tried the floor, the shower, once even the kitchen table.

But no matter how it started, it always ended the same: skin against skin, hearts beating hard, arms wrapped tight, my name on his lips like a lullaby.

He wasn't just good in bed. He was good in being-present, patient, reverent.

I didn't feel like an object. I felt like a woman again. Desired, yes-but adored.

---

One night, as I sat on him, riding him slow and deep, his hands gripping my hips, he looked up at me with eyes full of something more than lust.

"I want this forever," he said, breathless.

I stilled. My heart thudded harder than my body.

"What if I fall apart again?" I asked.

"Then I'll hold the pieces," he said. "Every single one."

---

Weeks later, he proposed-on the balcony, under fairy lights, the city glittering behind us.

There was no grand speech. Just a small velvet box. And the words, "Let's not survive anymore. Let's bloom."

I said yes.