You, me, us.
Have you ever made love with good music on?
Have you ever noticed how it turns the room into its own world? How it makes a kiss feel heavier, slower, like time just folded in on itself.
You feel him behind you, hands sliding over your skin, nails tracing lines you didn’t know were there. You feel him tense, a shiver running down his spine as you lean into him, as if the music is pulling him as much as it’s pulling you. Every breath he takes matches the beat, every sigh, every groan threading into the song, until the two of you are inseparable from it, from each other.
You ever feel it blur the line between soft and rough, how you can’t tell if you’re being held or broken, only that you don’t want this to stop.
You feel his teeth clench, his eyes closing in that brief moment before he kisses you. He drags you into a rhythm you didn’t know you could move in. Without trying, your body finds his, his finds yours, like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this one track to bring you here.
It’s everything and nothing at once. A mood you can’t name but never forget. From the first kiss to the fuck to the silence after, the music holds it all together, then disappears leaving you with the memory of what you just became.
The music engulfs everything, where you end, where he begins, where the night could take you. It’s not about the lyrics or the beat. It’s about the way it folds you both into the same atmosphere. The way it makes you forget the world outside the room. The way it makes you remember every single thing about him inside it. The cliff of it all, the moment you give yourself to the free fall.
Sometimes it feels like nothing, like you’re floating, untouchable, outside of time. Sometimes it feels like everything, like every kiss, every thrust, every flip to a new position, every gasp was meant to happen in that exact moment, in that exact way. And when the song ends, you can’t tell if it’s over or if the silence just became another kind of music.
To make love like music is when his tongue drags over your spine, wet and hot, before he bites down hard enough to make you gasp. His grip on your hips is bruising, pulling you back into every thrust until you’re clenching and breaking around him.
The way he kisses you mid-thrust, deep and messy, tongue fucking your mouth while he pounds into you, that’s the chorus. The way he whispers filth in your ear, voice ragged, calling you his while you grip the sheets like you’re drowning, that’s the crescendo. And when he pulls out slow just to slam back in deeper, locking eyes with you as your body shakes, that’s the kind of rhythm that wrecks you and makes you beg for replay.
To make love with music is to lose control without ever feeling lost. It’s to be carried, lifted, and undone by something neither of you owns but both of you surrender to. It’s to find rhythm where there was none, language where there were no words, truth in the space between bodies. To make love with music is to realise sex is not just touch, it’s atmosphere. It’s not just skin, it’s alignment. It’s not just climax, it’s communion.
His hands are relentless but so is his tenderness. You twist under him, buck against him, tilt your hips to meet his thrusts, grinding, guiding, daring him to keep up. He grips you harder, bruising, but you are not passive. You pull, you push, you twist, you lean into every sensation. You meet him, you drive him, you lose yourself with him.
And when the track fades, the music stays not in the room, but in the way your body remembers him long after he’s gone.
To make love like music is to be alive in every note together, to feel it in him as deeply as he feels it in you, until even silence hums with the echo of what you just became.
Always Yours,