I already don’t know how to call it. Any words do not reflect reality - a crazy desire to give your tenderness to you is not part of the familiar set of words. I wanted to answer your question. You somehow asked it, laughing and looking with huge eyes.

Did you see me naked? The question made laugh. I have seen everything you can. I saw you with your skirt upraised, your legs parted from caress, your panties pulled off and thrown away. I know your taste when you close your eyes and throw your hands over your head. I know what words you start screaming (or whispering) from enjoying me. I know the flinching of the buttocks and thighs from touching my lips. I know your funny embarrassment from the wet sounds of caressing each other's bodies. I still manage to see your face, touching the mouth of your chest and stomach. I know the touch of the nipples to the fingers and palms. I know the touch and the weight of your legs thrown over my shoulders. I know your smile when you unfasten the fasteners on my pants and start to caress with both hands.

I know your eyes and eyes when you start to undress for me. I know your face, embarrassment and joy, when my hands penetrate inside your little panties and you no longer resist (rather, on the contrary) their movement further and deeper. I know your face when you are whispering something, widely spread your legs to the sides, substituting anything you like for your caress and eyes. I know your face in a frank, straightforward primitive pleasure. I saw you in a shirt from my shoulder and in my underwear. And I saw you openly naked and open eyes, hands, legs to meet me.

Do you remember how you opened up the first time? I asked you for a long time, and you still pulled a sheet over you. Finally she scattered her hands, spread her legs a little and closed her eyes. I, smiling, looked at you. Looks like you physically felt your eyes caressing you and finally, laughing out loud, pulled me towards you.

I'm crazy about your touch. Legs apart for you - hands, eyes, lips. You know what a pleasure it is to lift your head, to direct yourself to you, to see a gradual penetration and your face at the same time. For a while, I still look at what you do. I enjoy every rhythmic movement of the lips around me. And I beat you in the throat. Then the pleasure becomes unstoppable. You throw up a triumphant, stained face - I smile to meet you. You do not see the smile - you can not open your eyes. You hug me and you drop your head somewhere in the lower abdomen. I embrace you and I don't want to let go.

Huddled in me and my own. You know what I feel with you, it seems, has not yet found a name. It is stronger than passion.

Stronger than what is called love. The letter was quite sensual, but I wanted you to know about it.

I think I answered the question?