To be utterly and completely drained. To feel like you’ve given every drop of every fluid of all your life force to him. No, not to him, to the thing you create when you’re together. So that you can’t move from the spot you’ve landed. So that you can’t break the connection of your fingers against his hip, your head on his shoulder, energy still coursing through the closed circuit.
It’s not pretty, or really anything you planned on, but you’ve come to find that you need him pulsing inside you. You don’t want it, but now you need it. Need. Like breath.
It’s no different for him. He’s told you. But you know.
He needs you too. He needs to drink your essence, his face between your legs, his mouth just under your earlobe, breathing in every pulsebeat. His tongue twisting with your tongue, his fingers tangled in your hair, pressing into your skull. He needs you too.
Without you, he gets wan and short-tempered. His mouth is dry and he is constantly hungry. Starving. For you. He says. You know.
Drinking from just anyone doesn’t work. He’s never felt truly fed before. Until you.
You’ve never tasted anything as good, as satisfying, as life-giving, until him. He is wine when everyone else has been stagnant water.
You break his daily fast. He won’t make it to midnight without you.
He is your daily Thanksgiving dinner. Every day, you give thanks.