I always know when she is ready. Ours is a routine I know by heart, although I don’t even consider it a routine; it’s more of a rhythm that my body and senses instinctively adopts when she is around me. A reaction of some sort. I lose control of my head coordination with my body, and the trouble is, I don’t mind it. Having her here, looking at her silky smooth legs waiting, begging for my lips to kiss them. I harden a little more. I need to get out of these jeans, too constricting.
She always sits at the recliner chair next to the bed, facing the screen, leaning back against it, and in the process exposing her neck. I nervously shuffle in my seat. Watching her breasts fall up and down as she inhales and exhales. Even her breathing turns me on. I take a long puff and lean back on the bed, one hand unconsciously resting on my crotch. She looks at me from the side and licks her lips, which dries up even before she is done flicking so she does it again. She knows where my thoughts go when she does that, I have confessed before. I close my eyes as the image in my head overwhelms me and take a deep breath. I see her head poised just above my manhood with her tongue flicking playfully at the head the way she is doing to her lips, her eyes never losing contact with mine. She then bites her lower lip and crosses her legs, letting her skirt dip a little lower. Her hand snakes to pull it up but then just rests at the exposed skin, her smooth shining skin inviting my gaze. She then proceeds to make small circles with her fingers, moving slowly, her eyes on me the whole time, her lips glistening with a fresh wave of saliva and I lose it. I inhale deeply, trying unsuccessfully to get my
heat heart under control. Am burning. But I will not give in. I sit up on the bed facing her and have another drag, I know how her lips will mould into mine. I anticipate how they will receive my advances with the same soft pressure that mine crave. How her eyes will close, unaware of it she might be, matching me stroke for stroke, giving as much as she receives, generously, and still probing. Leading. She likes to be in control and I don’t mind following her tempo. As soon as my hands make contact with her skin, her heat making me ache beyond belief, I willingly give in to her. I don’t want to be in control. Her pace is never rushed, each move calculated to entangle my senses in a web that I cannot will not fight. Am a willing prisoner. I go through my existence in a blur because my mind can’t grasp any detail when am not with her. I walk around having conversations with her in my head, listening to her laugh over and over in my head, feeling lost until the next time she is in my arms and it all make sense.
In that moment, I give all of me to her, for I would give it to no other. And when she reaches for my hand at her most vulnerable moment, right before her world explodes, I know am not alone in this boat. I squeeze her hand reassuringly and her hand squeezing mine back is the last straw. I let go with her. Spurts. Stars. Feeling and filling forever in a single minute and loving every instant, with all your nerves exploding in harmonious understanding of why they exist.
Hours later I watch her sleeping in the crook of my arm, thanking the stars for crisscrossing our paths. Being in her is not the climax for me; nor is it my lips exploring every inch of her body, licking, tasting, reaching into every dent, every crevice, wanting her whole being, her very essence to be absorbed into me. That is not the treasure for me, although it comes real close. My paragon comes in the form of her hand reaching for my hand; in the pressure of her hand squeezing mine back at our most connected moment. Our most intimate minute. That’s the instant my life makes complete sense.