I turn over, stretching lazily. I feel his hands warm and heavy over my stomach and his nose buried in my neck. I feel a rush of affection. I reach over and touch his hair. Rough, curly. He stirs. I turn towards him and pull him into my arms, as memories of last night come flooding back, filling me with desire and warmth all at once. His arms tighten around my body and his legs come around my waist, as if to pull me into his embrace even more closely. I snuggle up. I breathe in deeply, the fragrance of his skin filling me deeply.
He stiffens. I sense instinctively that he needs me. I kiss him gently, seeking his lips and caressing his skin. There’s something beautiful about this man. The gentleness of his touch, contrasting with the demands of his body. It’s like he knows what I want. And how. He’s now fully awake. He props himself on his elbow and looks into my eyes, silently seeking consent. I press my body against him. And he makes love to me. A slow, sensuous act made better by the knowledge that his love for me is far deeper than he cares to admit. His lips seek every curve, every crevice, as if to memorise every wrinkle on my body. He seeks out my breasts and caresses them. He buries his face in my chest as he brings me close. And I relinquish control willingly. I surrender to his needs, knowing that my own needs will be fulfilled many times over much before that.
He fills me up, with an ardour I’ve never felt before in our years together. The intensity of his desire surprises me. Every single time. As he makes love as only he can, I feel a joy that’s inexplicable. He turns me on my stomach and continues his lovemaking, an act that frustrates and excites at the same time. An hour later, we lie spent. The weight of his body on mine feels fulfilling in ways I cannot explain. He finally brings me on top of him and hugs me close. He kisses me deeply and says, “Good morning babe. Coffee?” And I fall in love all over again. For the zillionth time.