When Will the Butterflies End?

Hand,
beneath the cotton.
Lips,
pressed together.

Breathing,
intensifying.
Movement,
rhythmic.

Hips,
buck.
Bodies,
thrust.

Pull-out bed,
springs squeek.
Futon bed,
quiet as can be.

Hand,
beneath the cotton.
Teeth,
biting neck.

Breathing,
intensifying.
Movement,
faster.

Barely,
screaming.
Hitting,
climax.

Hand,
on my hips.
Fingers,
tightening her grip.

Bodies,
connected.
Words,
rejected.

Orgasm one,
already done.
Orgasm two,
just for you.

Shirt is,
stripped.
Pants are,
thrown.

Lips kissing,
every inch.
Lips moving,
down body.

Clit,
licked.
Pussy,
fucked.

Hands gripping,
sheets.
Hands gripping,
hips.

Orgasm three,
made by me.
Screaming,
well done.

Tasting you,
tastes so right.
Fucking you,
feels so good.

Hand beneath,
the cotton.
Tongue inside,
your clit.

Sweating,
breathing.
Gripping,
screaming.

Percentages,
we count.
Both,
about to 100.

Whispering,
"Baby!"
Whisper back,
"What?"

Moaning,
escapes.
Orgasms,
come alive.

Lying,
next to you.
Holding,
you tight.

We sleep,
underneath covers.
We sleep,
covered in sweat.

Closeness,
I enjoy.
Lust,
I adore.

Wake up,
nothing has happened.
Friends over,
nothing has happened.

Sleeping together,
best friends.
When will,
the butterflies end?