There’s passion, or there’s nothing. And I want the type that drips down your back and soaks the sheets. The kind that makes you lose sleep, and late for work in the morning. The type of passion she still feels between her legs the next day. Passion that begins in one room, and ends on the floor of another. I’m talking about the kind that pins down wrists, and demands eye contact. Passion that makes her body quiver, and her legs tremble. I mean passion that’s so seductive that she would never dream of looking for it from someone else. That’s so uninhibited, intimate, and full of handfuls of hair, or hips, or their neck, or ankles, and makes you wish they had more hands. But they don’t. And it’s more than enough. And when you finish, you’re finished. And you know, in between those short breaths and messy hair, there’s passion. Or there’s nothing. 

J. Raymond