Mi Amor
Musing #14 - People chase novelty like it holds the answers. As if something new can fix the ache. But these two? They’ve lived enough to know that there’s a different kind of magic in repetition.
There’s romance in a story being told again and again - not because it’s forgotten, but because it’s been loved.
In knowing, it doesn’t need to be new to be loved. To be alive. It just needs to be honest. Present. True.
Megs xx
There’s an underrated, unappreciated theme in the world of spicy fiction: sex between long time lovers.
Not the rushed, naked desire of a one time thing. Not strangers meeting in the dark.
Sex between people who have been together for a long time, and have lived lives with an intimacy others have no access to. Who carry each other’s stories in their blood. In their bones.
These people have a language all their own. A dialect born of mundane mornings, arguments in the car, breathing in each other's air as they sleep each night.
They’ve lived through seasons of transformation - of shared grief and loss and change. He’s watched her body grow with pregnancy - and held her through the loss of them. Grieved and cried and cursed with her.
They’ve survived quiet betrayals and louder reconciliations. She still looks at him as though they were twenty. Just starting - young, and falling in love.
Sex, to them, is expansive. Acts of worship. Unflinching. Real.
Quick. Dirty. Necessary.
It can be as vast and varied as making love - slowly and sensually - taking time to love each other properly. To a quick, filthy fuck; taking each other apart. Need stretching them both to breaking point until they find themselves in the bathroom. The house quiet. His kiss is soft - at first. Familiar and full of warmth. Until it grows hungrier. Deepens.
There’s a rogue sock on the tiles, and the exhaust fan is still making the ticking sound she asked him to fix months ago - but still her back arches and his hands find her hips as he slides to the floor. He sucks her clit into his mouth. The need to taste her on his tongue too loud to ignore. The cold stone bites into her thighs and she weaves fingers into his hair, in case she floats away as she comes undone.
Pleasure is no longer performative. No wondering what she looks like in the bright lights of their bedroom. No flexing of muscles or preening in front of the mirror first. It’s not something to be chased. It’s constant. Consistent. It permeates the relationship. There is only instinct - finely honed and deeply felt. Putting a puzzle back together in a way that only someone who's seen all the pieces can do.
He knows her. Completely. Can read her body like a well worn, dog-eared novel. One that hasn’t yet lost its appeal. One that promises a new line, a metaphor yet undiscovered. The tale, familiar, but new each time.
Time bends for them - until it doesn’t. Sometimes, he takes his time because there’s no need to rush. But sometimes, moments must be seized. When there’s kids distracted by twenty minute episodes, and he has her pressed against the washing machine. He slips her pants down, lifts his shirt up and frees himself. There’s just enough time to kiss before he’s inside her, racing towards a finish line and assuming they’ll both get there, because they always do. And when they do, he kisses her like she holds the secrets to their universe. Because she does.
Sometimes, his restraint is tested. A night spent teasing. She flirts with strangers - pushes her breasts up and lets other men or women look. Lets them linger. Has him pulled taut until he snaps.
All it takes on the walk home is an accidental brush of hands or bodies and he has her pressed up against the side of the neighbours house and she’s hoping their sensor lights are fucked.
She likes to work him up. Flirt with the line of propriety in public places. A lifted hemline. A finger sucked into her mouth, just to hear the intake of breath as she bites down. She likes to watch as that possessive side of him builds up until he’s grabbing her stuff and telling her it’s time to go. And then not making it home before he’s buried in her. One hand in her hair and the other working fingers inside her. Forcing an orgasm out of her before they’re even out of the street.
‘You’ve been testing me tonight,’ he says, voice thick with want.
She looks up at him, feigning innocence. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
They both know better.
They know that desire like theirs doesn’t dim just because the stories are familiar.
If anything, it burns brighter. Smolders deeper.
It’s a favourite song - the rhythm instinctive. The chorus irresistible.
It’s the quiet gasp when he finds that spot he’s known for years, in the crook of her thigh. Or the way she smiles just before she breaks.
There’s no need for a plot twist or a shiny new character. There’s only their story - one told again and again in tangled sheets, stolen glances and breathless laughter.
Because, the best stories are the ones worth retelling.
And theirs is the kind you want to hear with the lights off, your legs open, and your heart listening.
Megan Peacock, 2025
Image: @the.stars.collector via Instagram