How These Things Happen

You say, you think
you need to be underneath me.
And so it goes,
something like this:
You are underneath me.
Enough said, except ...
...my legs open.
I guide you inside.
I press down on you,
pulling you in.
I move on you.
You in me.
"Like this?"
Silly of me to ask.
Your face says yes.
It goes without saying,
but I look to your face
to say it again, anyway,
my breasts colliding with your chest,
as I crouch down on you,
bringing you further into me,
me all wrapped up in you.
I move my hips, rhythmically,
and sometimes not, just to tease.
My face lies next to yours.
Your breath in my ear.
My hair across your face.
My hands gripping your chest.
My thumbs on the flick and press
of your stiff nipple switches.
Your hands on my hips,
guiding me.
My thighs hugging you,
my heels pressed to your knees.
You exploding into me,
or was that me into you?
I lose track of the sounds
that leave my mouth,
when my name
erupts from your throat.
All because, you said,
you needed to be ...
... underneath me.