He is over me, his weight carefully balanced to press me into the ground without crushing me, his hands holding my wrists above my head, his feet wrapped around my ankles pinning me in place.
For a moment.
Only for a moment.
Because in the next breath, my hips buck up against him, jostling his foothold enough for my sole to find purchase against the hardwood and swipe my other leg around the back of his knee. I roll my shoulders upward, bracing my weight on the left, and twist. In the next instant, it is he who is under me. And he will stay that way, struggling – valiantly but futilely – against my hold with muscle and will until his breath is coming in gasps.
And the harder he tries to get away…
…the harder he gets.
It is a game we play. One that is primal and antagonistic, that requires energy and endurance, that takes me from ‘Meh’ to rough-fuck-ready in a matter of minutes. Predator and prey, sometimes switching roles as we roll, we grapple and wrestle, strain and heave, laboring through a contest of strength and stamina until we are slick with sweat and heavy with need.
When I feel him struggle against me, his body outwardly fighting mine but all the while grinning at me with that Come and get me spark in his eye, my blood roars in my ears and my heart thunders in my chest. It is a challenge. One I cannot refuse.
It is a game we play, one that is reminiscent of ancient mating rituals, role-reversed.
When we tussle, bodies writhing against one another, the sheen of sweat slicking my skin is a pheromone-infused elixir, sweetened by the scent of cream coating my thighs. The force – physical and aromatic – that hits him when this happens is obviously intoxicating; his struggle weakens, his cock hardens, and his gaze turns as slack as his body does hard.
It is a struggle. A contest. A wrestling match.
It is foreplay. A fight before we fuck.
It is a game.
And no matter who ends up on top…
I always win.