It’s like this sometimes.
The sky is barely purple, the first rays of the sun slipping through the half-parted curtains, streaking her white comforter in shades of pink.
Some mornings, they roll, barely conscious, into each other, eyelids still too heavy to open, hands and lips loose and slow. They don’t speak.
Around sunrise, they are silent.
Skin on skin, there is nothing between them. The rough hair on his legs rubs against her calves. The sheets are cotton, well-worn, soft and familiar against their bodies.
She likes that her bed smells like him now.
He can see the beginnings of light through his closed eyelids, can feel her eyelashes on his cheek.
They don’t know, don’t care, who kissed who first. It’s barely even kissing at first, just their lips resting upon one another, breathing soundless love. Slowly, he dips his lower lip beneath hers, lifting it up and she opens for him, her yawn slipping down his throat.
It’s like this sometimes.
She is Sunday soft against his body, nowhere to be except right there, and when her hand finds him underneath the covers, he is morning hard, warm and ready beneath her fingers as they wrap loosely around him and she feels his wordless moan on her tongue.
His hands map a course from her hair, his fingers tangling in the waves, down her neck and shoulders to her back and around, sliding under her arms to her breasts. Beneath his hands, she feels ripe and sexy; she would sit astride him and make love to him with her head thrown back and her breasts bared if she weren’t still half-asleep.
His palms are warm and wide as they slide from her bosom down to her stomach and he loves that she is soft and just the slightest bit rounded, so very, deliciously female.
He is pulsing and tumescent, the feel of him making her liquid and when he brings his hands to her rear and pulls her against him, oh, it’s the only place she wants to be. It’s perfect.
Almost.
Because when he pushes inside of her, it’s oh my god yes please god oh this is what’s been missing so good she could cry. Eyes still closed, senses heightened, she feels him, is filled with him, full of him, fulfilled by him.
When he rolls them slightly so he is on top of her, the white sheet slips down his shoulder blades, glides over his spine and lingers a moment on his backside before sliding down his legs, leaving them both completely bare to the whispering light of the rising sun, beginning to edge orange against a pink- and- purple-tinged sky.
At this angle, he is deeper inside her and God it’s amazing. She’s heavenly, warm like honey on a summer day and when he rolls his hips against hers, she fists the hair at the nape of his neck and he buries his face in her shoulder, the faintest scent of her shampoo - coconuts and guava and something else that smells like beaches and coves and deep, long, slow, soft kisses under a waterfall - finding its way to his nose and making him almost whimper against her skin.
It’s like this sometimes.
She makes him weak.
She begins to quiver around him, just slightly, softly at first. He lifts his head from where it’s been resting against her neck and finally, their eyelids flutter open.
It’s quiet. Not a word. Her bleary gaze is love and please and yes and mmmmmm. His hazy stare is forever and wait and yours and ohhhhh.
He makes her come undone.
He feels her tremble, feels her fight to hold back. He knows she likes to follow him there, off the edge of the world. She closes her eyes and presses her lips together. She’ll wait, she’ll wait.
No.
He kisses her lips, coaxing them against his. His fingertips stroke her cheeks, her eyelids open and he kisses her with eyes wide open, silently telling her to fall, he’ll follow her, he’ll be right there, he’ll catch her, she’s safe, he loves her, let go.
Yes.
Yes.
He follows her, surging, hot, spilling into her, and she swallows his groan, her fingernails clawing, leaving tiny marks on his bare back.
When it’s over, he rolls to the side, taking her with him, her smooth legs tangled with his rougher ones. He draws her head to his chest, twisting locks of her hair around his fingers as he softens inside of her.
She closes her eyes and presses kisses to his clavicle. He strokes her behind, his fingertips traversing its curve. Her toes stretch to reach his ankle, circling it.
Outside the window, the sky is blue, the sun warming the bed through half-parted curtains.
They are silent.
It’s like this sometimes.
Story Notes:
I have no ownership over anything "Office" related
Chapter End Notes:
Chapter title is Amos Lee's "Arms of a Woman."
andtheivy is the author of 17 other stories.
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This story is part of the series, Let's Spend the Night Together. The previous story in the series is Make 'em go "oh! oh! oh!". The next story in the series is The walls start shaking, the earth was quaking.
