Number One.

He'd know how to twine his fingers through my hair and pull without hurting (too much).
He'd know a spank from a spank.
He'd spend an hour with his head between my legs because he loves it, not because I have to convince him.
He'd relish the taste of every part of me.
He'd tell me how it was going to be.
He'd think sex is hilarious and gorgeous and disgusting and transcendent all at once.
His slipping inside me would be almost as gratifying as orgasm.
He'd get me to want what I didn't think I could want.
And like it.
He'd bite the back of my neck as though he was biting a grape without breaking the skin.
He could fuck me fifteen minutes after fucking me.
He'd use words like lovely and beautiful to describe me.
He'd tell me how much he loves to fuck me. I'd tell him too and mean it.
He'd curl around me and I wouldn't feel smothered or crowded.
He'd get me hot just by kissing me.
He'd get me hot just by running his finger down my arm.
He'd fuck me in a car, on the stairs, in the grass, against a wall, anywhere he could.

He'd be my Number One Lover.