His hands run over my body as if I would break. My skin is caressed as if It was the finest of silks.

He seduces gently.

Tender touches, and lingering glances. The slightest pressure of skin on skin. He refuses to let me bear any sort of weight, refuses to share the burden.

He undresses gently.

No ripping, no tearing. Just unzipping and unbuttoning. Pulling and pushing.

He embraces gently.

As if I were a precious china that was only used for special occasions. The kind that your mother chides you for playing with and promises great punishment if you break it.

He talks gently.

His words spoken softly and quietly, sometimes reverently. His tone is low, as if he were not worthy of my presence, as if he were a peasant and I his queen.

He kisses gently.

A fleeting brush of the lips. A small flick of the tongue.

He is gentle.

****************************************************************************

He is rough.

His hands caress my body harshly uncaring of my supposedly fragile bones. My skin is brushed with the most callused of hands, to him I am not silk.

I am leather. I am lace.

I am everything.

He seduces roughly.

Urgent touches and heated gazes. The heavy burden of his full weight atop me as he buries himself inside me. He has no care for taking full responsibility, we share it.

He undresses roughly.

Buttons flying, zippers ripping. I have lost count of the number of clothes he’s shredded, the number of panties he torn in his haste to love me.

He embraces roughly.

Carnal and melting. He tugs and pulls, molds and curves until we are fitted together as if made for each other.

He talks roughly.

His words are spoken dryly and sardonically. Throaty and deep when he is angered. Throaty and deep when in the throes of ecstasy. He insults me, he compliments me. We have sparred many times. He does not always best me, and I am eager for each new jibe.

He kisses roughly.

Bee stung lips, and dueling tongues. Tasting and entwining.

He is rough.

*****************************************************************************

I was once happy with gentle.

With being worshiped, and put above all else.

Placed on a pedestal, afraid of faltering.

I thought gentle was the only way a man could be, should be.

Until I felt the temptation of rough.

Instead of glass, instead of china.

Instead of a goddess.

I was a woman.

I may sometimes wish for the gentle man, his memories might flash through my mind, but they are fleeting and easily forgotten.

Because I choose him.

I choose rough.

I choose love.

I choose Michael.