I hate saying that we fuck — it's too forceful.

But if I say that we have sex, it lacks nuance.

And don't even get me started on "making love" — romanticized, much?

In truth, I don't know what we do. It can't be described with one word, and certainly can't be described with a fucking euphemism — I'm looking at you, "sleeping together."

It's none of those things. It's slow... and tender. It starts with him gently pressing his lips to my shoulder, and making his way up.

His lips become more forceful as they meet mine, and then they open — just a little. I open mine in response, and can feel the breath passing between us.

His tongue dances into my mouth, tentatively at first. My tongue meets his, equally as hesitant, and suddenly we're in sync.

We burn up. Our skin gets slick. It's sensual, dizzying, and, frankly, a fucking mess.

"You are a goddess," he murmurs, staring at me. I can't help but feel self-conscious.

"I'm not," I whisper, shaking my head.

"You are," he says defiantly, brushing my chin with his index finger. "I've dreamt of this, from the moment that I saw you. You are drop-dead gorgeous."

Most of the time, I feel like I'm drop-dead average, but in this moment I feel wanted. I feel sexy. I feel like a butterfly spreading its wings and folding them around him forever.

You see, we don't just have sex. It's a metamorphosis. No one has ever praised me like he does; no one has ever wanted me for my body like he does.

I am transformed.