I wander through the quiet house this morning, picking up the detritus from last night. An abandoned glass, half-full, clothes on the floor in a heap, a lap blanket, a pair of shoes. My rings and phone and watch.

I think about him, going about his morning routine, here, in my space: his alarm, my alarm, the warmth of our bodies pressed close together, one, before we have to part into our separate selves again. The smell and feel and heat of him; of us.

Hearing in him the shower, knowing his hands are wandering where I want mine to: why didn’t I get up and shower with him? But there is also a pleasure in opening my eyes, in peering at him from the warm of my blankets, as he comes back into my room fresh out of the shower, his hair a glistening red-gold over his shoulders, and rising, kneeling behind him, to brush it out for him.

Here, in the cool morning light while I wait for my coffee to brew, I think about what we didn’t do last night, and my body thrums, aches. It’s a good ache, but still. I wanted his hands on me. Pressing the bruises he left on my body the other night, opening my thighs, pushing those long fingers of his inside me. And his mouth – how is it I long for his mouth on me – there – when that has never been a thing for me before?

Last night, so sweetly vanilla. Us three out at a friend’s house, a firepit, drinks and food and handing candy out to kids. Then home and to bed…just another weeknight. I love that our weeknights have become…not routine, but…settled. So wonderfully normal.

But also: massaging oil into his skin, stroking his back, my naked body against his, desire and longing flowing through me, the feel of his skin, slick between my legs where I straddle him. Why didn’t I tell him, show him what I wanted?

Mute, unable to voice the simplest desire: touch me. Run your hands over my skin, breathe into my neck, my mouth, make my body come alive. Why didn’t I take his hand and put it where I wanted it? Still, after all this time, unable to make that move. Too forward. What if he isn’t in that space? Always questioning myself. Is that part of being submissive, or just my own insecurities? Wanting to touch and feel and be touched and lose myself in him and being unable to voice that. It’s cute when we play those games, when he teases me and makes me say the words, makes me silly and embarrassed; not so much when it is my own fear stopping me.

And yet last night was a bit of its own perfection all the same. His body curling around mine, his arms holding me close, our legs entwined; his mouth against my neck, those sweet, sweet words. And sleep – a sigh, a dream, warmth and security and love and tenderness.

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