I miss him.

He always accused me of “acting.” This struck me as charmingly modest, given the circumstances.

I didn’t ever end up shivering from the sex alone, but when he would wake me up like that, I always ended up shivering and pressing my face into his morning scruff. 

He would wake up and untangle the mess of arms and legs and sheets, and tuck me back into organized, straighter lines. Then, once rearranged, he’d grab my leg behind the knee and drape it over his own leg, watching my face as it never stirred under many dense layers of sleep. Then his hand would slither down between my thighs, smooth over the little patch of black hair and caress my pussy in slow circles. 

He said his favorite part was the 10 long seconds when my body woke up before my brain. He said I would tuck my chin down and moan low and quiet. He said that every time, without fail, I’d reach one arm out from under the sleepy fog and touch his chest, and that contact, it seemed, was what swept away the last lacy cobwebs of sleep from my eyes. And the moment before I became fully awake, he’d dip one thick middle finger into my wetness and draw one precise circle around my hardened clit and absorb the quaking “Ohhhhh”  that escaped my mouth before my eyes fluttered open. 

When I opened my eyes, he’d be smiling with just the corner of his mouth, and I had to be closer to him. With each careful, deliberate circle and rub of my clit, I’d inch a tiny bit closer until my forehead was pressed unto that crooked half-smile on his lips. 

He’d push me closer and closer and then, right before I came, I’d start to shiver and my mouth would drop open and my teeth would scrape his chin as I choked on a near-silent “Ughhh—Nnnff”  and suck in one little desperate breath. I couldn’t stop. Even when the weather was warm and his little house was filled with sun, I’d lie there shaking like an nervous lap dog.

“Are you acting?” He’d ask in the golden minute, on my way down.

I’d rub my forehead back and forth against his mouth, and I could feel those lips stretch out and turn up on the corners against the skin of my forehead.

He’d let me rest for a moment, then he’d push the folded leg away, climb in between them as he laid down on me, warm and weighing down the shaking that always made me feel so out of control, his hard cock pressed between us.

This was us, sun-gilt and smelling like morning and leftover sex and fresh sex and tingling with the soon-to-be sex, and some days it seemed like that’s all we were and all we needed to be. 

I miss him.