The first time,
a word that is not a word—
a syllable between
a gasp and something blurred,
past the point of human language,
just a sound
that rattled in her chest
and shook the ground.
What she said when she came is what I live for in this bed,
every word she bled
through clenched teeth
and shaking limbs
and eyes rolled back to white.
The second time,
fuck in seven syllables,
stretched like taffy, each one fillable
with the tremor of a woman
detonating from the inside out—
she gripped my back
and turned that word into a shout.
What she said when she came was worth the fight,
of getting her there,
the thirty minutes of deliberate work.
The third time,
silent.
And that is the biggest tell:
when the noise stops
and her body starts to swell
with the kind of orgasm
that takes the voice away entirely.
She convulsed,
grabbed the sheets,
bit me squarely on the shoulder—
hard enough to bruise—
then exhaled everything
and whispered,
holy shit, you beautiful machine,
that is my offering.
What she said when she came,
that beautiful berserk.