Snippet.

When you kiss, you don’t know what to do with his body.
“What do you want?” he asks you, and he has his hand in your panties.
Instead of saying “I want us to 69 and then I want to fuck you in the ass with your dildo,”
you decide to take things one step at a time and say, “well… um… you could… perhaps penetrate me”, meaning with his fingers, but he misunderstands, and smirks.

“Right. I’m going to fuck you,” and gives you such a smoldering look that you’re too embarrassed to correct him.
When you fuck, you retreat into yourself, suddenly shy. You’d already ridden out your drunkenness and so are no longer bold.
He enters you from behind, the two of you kneeling, and his hands cup your breasts and move down your body, urgently, like his hands were meant to cruise all over your skin.
You feed off of his pants and jerky body movements,
feeling like you’re being worshiped,
...feeling like this is worship.
There has to be something spiritual about all of this concentrated attention.
Religious, even.

You end up on your hands and knees, and your body feels nothing except red hot shards of pleasure at your core.
He grunts.
Swears.
Comes.

You don’t.

But you revel in the fact that you’ve reduced him to this.
This articulate,
overly-intellectual
person
to
one word:
Fuck.

Time for sleep.
He rolls away from you, turns out the lamp, says you can feel free to stay.
Not that he wants you to; but that you can feel free to.
He plays classical music on his iPhone.
You close your eyes.

Afterwards, you’ll look back on that moment as the moment that he lost interest.
But, for a few minutes at least, nothing else existed for him except you; and your quota for… whatever it is, was filled a little more.