The Morning After

He woke up slowly with the lazy morning sun to the smell of dust and old sweat and the sound of his lover's steady breathing. Gradually he became aware of himself and his surroundings: a dry mouth and a dull ache; one of her hands on his stomach; his left hand behind his head while his right arm stretched underneath her never-fluffed pillow. He stared up at the dust floating in the air, glitter in the sunlight. Pursing his lips, he blew a jet of air at them. Once the two met, the dust and his breath, they'd dance a chaotic dance, like sparks in a fire.

He breathed in, slowly, deeply. The scents of the night's activities were muted, forming a background to what was specifically Him and Her. It was calming and familiar. She didn't wear perfume, or, if she did, it was too subtle for him to detect. As far as he could tell, she was herself, just her, and he liked that.

She murmured quietly against his chest and slid one of her legs slowly onto his as her hand moved up onto his chest. Neither had bothered with putting any clothes back on, holding each other close until sleep overtook them. His mind raced down a single-minded path and he thought of gently nudging her awake. Slowly, silently, he shifted the stain-splattered sheet, softly sliding it across her slender shoulder. Fingertips barely restrained traced invisible lines along her upper arm, tickling the fine hairs visible in the sun's glare.

A sharp intake of air. He stopped, freezing his hand over her, afraid that even the muffled sound of his joints might wake her. Even that seemed like too harsh of a way to wake her up. He wanted her to slide into consciousness in a faint transition, unable to determine immediately if she was awake yet or still dreaming. He brought his hand back down carefully, every creak of his joints another heartbeat skipped. One fingertip slowly trailing up her arm was joined by another and another until each one touched her soft white skin, so slowly they would've lost the race from her wrist to her elbow against a snail. As his hand moved to follow along the bend at her elbow, he slowly brought the rest of his hand down, more carefully than a surgeon. The stiff pain from holding his arm up like that became almost too much by the time he made it back to her shoulder an eternity later. Thankfully he had his whole hand placed against her by that point and he felt he could be a little less careful in his caresses. He stretched the muscles of his arm as he moved from her shoulder down to her bare side, fingers catching oh-so-slightly on the slight raises of her ribs and the once sweat-slick skin. The little finger purposefully separated itself from the others to press into the yielding flesh of her breast as it pressed against him. The thoughts still stirred in his mind, unsatisfied.

As his hand moved from her side over to her back he moved the other onto her neck, from the base of her skull to a point behind her ear and back; slow circles beneath flaxen hair. The other hand moved more boldly, pressing her even closer against him as he moves his hand up her spine. A soft gasp escaped her soft lips as her leg slides further up. She's not awake, not yet. He suddenly became conscious of his own heavy breathing and the taste and smell of the beer they both shared last night, bitter and warmer than either would prefer, but neither one cared. They had been too caught up in each other to really pay attention to trivial details like that. He closed his eyes and lost himself in his memories: her rough tongue wrestling his own, the drunken giddiness as they fell into bed holding each other, the overwhelming release of climax. He couldn't hold back for much longer, not like this. Movement against his chest broke his carnal enthrallment. Her pale blue eyes looked up at him softly as she smiled.

"Good morning."