Crush

His desire nuzzled against my thigh. My skin both hot and cold and anticipating. The rhythm, the rock, the waves, the crash. And I feel the warmth of the blanket and fingertips and humid breath on my neck. As we tangle and tense and release. Our hands, our hearts, our murmured exchanges. Bare feet on bare feet. Hands on hips and shoulders and grasping and stroking and finding hardness and softness. Peaks and valleys, endless sighs and moans. Darkness and light and the hint of a thunderstorm as we take and give and toss and roll. And time stands still. Just for us.

His hands, his eyes, the hair on his chest; his skin on my skin. His palm slides through the dampness that covers me like fine mist from head to toe. As his mouth takes possession of first one then the other engorged little bud. His lips, his tongue, my fingers digging into the muscles on his back as the pulse and ache and longing retreats to the shadowy places that cannot touch me here. Like the first time. So good, so full, so deep. So lost in the words rolling around in my head. Like tumbling through space and landing in pillows and silk and feather beds. A full moon splashing its magic across hollows and curves. As my thighs grip his thighs, and hands caress cheeks and shoulders, and dip and fly and hover and find any place I can to pull him closer.

He is thrust and parry and lunge and point and I surrender to the thought of belonging. A shiver, a shudder, a tremble as earthquakes fold and unfold between us, under us, around us. The tumbling, rumbling, numbing kind that spread out in all directions. As hands clench and grab and pull. As hips pitch and roll and ride the swell of the moment. The smell of rain on hot pavement and musk and honey as the room spins and tips and swings. Like a pendulum. Back and forth and I can’t help but watch and feel and think that I will soon be hypnotized by the movement. As muscles tighten and flex and strain and let go and we both believe whatever it is we are going to believe. About each other and this moment; our clothes in a careless pile on the floor. Soft secrets no longer hidden.

Then all is quiet and still and slack, his weight upon me. The stubble of his cheek against my neck. A breeze through the cotton curtains. Across wet skin and passion and the pull of slumber. My one hand stroking the damp curls at the base of his next. Breath steadied, bottom lip parted, he is nothing now if not a little boy in repose. My other hand on the small of his back. Marking X on a map. Blazing a trail across a landscape of rolling hills and dales.

How I never tire of basking in this warm crush of affection.