Stop licking my feet, she said, that's gross. Her giggle told a different story. He worked his way up her calf, peppering her leg with kisses before stopping at her knee.
How'd you get this scar?
She opened her eyes, brought back to reality for a second. I got that climbing a chain link fence in third grade.
Why were you climbing a fence, he asked. He planted his lips on her scar as he ran his hand up and down her outer thigh. He kept his eyes on her face.
I wanted an orange.
Women and their damnable fruit.
She smiled and closed her eyes again.
He kissed his way up her inner thigh. He moved his head from one thigh to the other, letting his mouth brush against the hair between her legs. She felt his breath on her and squirmed just so.
Between her legs he smiled to himself as he felt her move. He loved her, but knew he'd never tell her. When he felt her fingers grip his hair none of that mattered. There was just this moment, this bed, this woman.
That is more than enough, he thought to himself.
He started to work his way down her thigh when he felt her pulling his head between her legs. He loved the way she knew what she wanted. He loved even more the way she insisted upon getting what she wanted.
He loved the smell of her, the taste of her. This was every bit a pleasure for him as it was for her.
His eyes opened as he layed in bed alone. He sat up and walked to the bathroom. He ran the water, cupped his hands under it and splashed his face. He wondered if he'd stopped having dreams like this. Her toothbrush was still where she left it. Her hair brush. Her makeup.
He walked back to bed, past the pajamas she left on the floor, over to her side. He breathed her pillow. Her smell was still there. He knew it wouldn't always be so he breathed it in, his lungs not big enough to take in all that he wanted. He put it down and laid on his side.
He drifted. That smell, that taste...