random musings

Touch.

Calloused fingertips dancing across the bare expanse of your back, so slowly that they seem to make time stand still, if only for a moment. The roughened pads of his thick fingers twirling over each and every freckle, birthmark, scar. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his warm skin ghosting over yours, trailing down your spine and tracing the curves of your shoulder blades.

The knuckles gliding down your arm wordlessly seek to know, Are you awake?

Yes, you silently reply, your own fingers reaching back to tangle with his, the coolness of his wedding band a shock to your flushed skin. His hand, so much larger than your own, closes around yours for a moment and squeezes softly, tenderly, lovingly.

Then his fingers are gone, replaced by the featherlight touch of his lips against the curve of your neck, his button nose nudging your hair out of the way as he peppers your skin with barely-there kisses that leave your body aching for more. His lips are soft, breathtakingly so, in a way that makes you want to both laugh and weep as his mouth trails from the crook of your shoulder up to that delicate spot just beneath your ear and then down again across the nape of your neck. You’re reminded of the peppermint chapstick that he insists on applying all year long, and your heart suddenly feels near to bursting with love for the man whose arm is now snaking tightly around your middle, drawing you back more securely against his strong chest.

Your hand slides down and traces the curve of his, each of his veins like a sentinel standing at attention as he fists your midnight blue nightgown in his grasp, his kisses growing more insistent as he nips at your ear, his tongue soothing the sting left in the wake of his affectionate attack.

His fingers, his lips, his hands, his tongue—they all meld together, the sensation of his touch overwhelming in the very best way as he rolls you onto your back, his weight shifting as he presses himself down upon you, bare skin brushing against the silky softness of your nightgown, teasing the hardened nipples underneath.

Then his mouth is on you again, hot breath fanning across your chest as his head dips lower, lips and tongue working in tandem to caress your pebbled skin through the fabric of the nightgown you’d purchased just for him on his last birthday—the one he always handled with such care as he tore it off you.

You adore the feel of the hard muscles and planes of his back as your hands explore his body, your delicate fingertips tracing his freckles and birthmarks and scars. You can feel the strength of him in every tiny movement, the quiet power and agility that so many underestimate, the vigor that turns you to a puddle every time.

His touch is gentle as he continues to move downward, his massive paws gliding dark blue silk upward to lay you bare before him—for a brief moment, you remember the scrap of matching blue lace still lying in the drawer where you’d abandoned it last night, much to your husband’s evident delight.

And then his face is buried between your thighs, teeth tugging at the fragile skin he finds there as those calloused fingertips dig into the meaty flesh of your upper legs, spreading you wide for him to devour. He’s all soft lips and warm tongue and hot breath as he explores every inch of you, that button nose that you so often press kisses to nudging and teasing you in just the right places.

His touch in this moment has you seeing stars, your hips bucking upwards as you feel yourself cresting the waves of pleasure he’s unleashing within you. You bury your fingers in his honeyed locks to steady yourself, your heart beating double time inside your chest as you sense yourself drifting further and further away from the shore, lost in this whirlpool of his creation. But then his fingers are lacing through yours, holding you secure. Anchoring you to him. He’d never let you slip so far away that he could not find you.

His touches don’t cease as you ride the wave of your high, his hands firmly wrapped around your hips and his mouth still on you as your back arches off the bed with a soundless cry, salty tears streaming out your eyes and into your hair, pulse racing, skin hot to the touch.

He’s holding you again, his lips featherlight once more as they travel across your collarbone, his work-roughened hands grasping your legs until the trembling finally subsides.

His touches whisper, I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m here. I’ll never leave you.

Taste.

You can taste yourself on him when he kisses you, a sharp, tangy flavor that you’ve never quite gotten used to. But on his lips, anything can taste like heaven. 

As you tangle your fingers in his mussed locks and kiss him back, you try to pick out all the other flavors on his tongue—the faint hint of spearmint from the toothpaste he’d used to brush his teeth before bed, the barely-there taste of his peppermint chapstick, the slight saltiness from the sweat he worked up between your legs. They all blend together to form a flavor that is so distinctly him. You wish you could bottle it up and keep it with you forever.

His kisses taste sweeter than honey and get you drunker than any cocktail at The Hard Deck ever could. You could happily spend all your days like this—forgoing food and water for the rest of time so long as you could feast upon these lips that you love so much.

The rest of him tastes just as sweet as you mimic his kisses from earlier, your lips trailing across his jaw, working the spot just beneath his ear, then traveling down towards the dip of his shoulder.

Pressing him down into his pillows, you explore every inch of his body with eager lips, never tiring of the taste of his skin, still warm from sleep and flushed from exertion. And when you take him into your mouth, his hips jumping slightly as his hands find purchase in your hair, you swear you grow lightheaded for a moment at the musky, salty taste of him.

An act that you had once dreaded before knowing him now becomes the highlight of your morning as you use your mouth to bring him pleasure, the way he has done for you more times than you could even think to number. And where once upon a time you would have pulled away, now you welcome the explosion of him on your tongue, a mixture of salty and sweet that you couldn’t explain even if you wanted to.

But you don’t want to. Because this? This is just for the two of you, and no one else. You’re the only one who gets to know what he tastes like.

It fills you with a sort of giddy sensation, the flavor of both of you joined together on your lips and tongue. You kiss him again so that he can experience it, too, this blending together of the pleasure you find in one another.

His tongue is gentle in your mouth, moving with yours in a dance that your body knows all too well.

The taste of him tells you, I am yours, and you are mine. Always.

Sight.

He’s beautiful. He’s always been so beautiful.

As he grabs you around the waist and pins you down to the bed once more, hovering above you, you have a chance to admire the way the morning light comes streaming through the gossamer curtains, bathing him in a warm, golden glow.

Cerulean eyes gaze down at you, rivaling even the bluest of seas, and the love glowing in them is enough to send your world tilting on its axis and then turn it right side up again.

It’s taken you so long to truly embrace the way he looks at you, as if you yourself had climbed up into the sky and hung the moon and stars. 

He’s been looking at you that way since the very start, but your instinct has always been to hide, to duck your head or avert your gaze—anything to escape the intensity of such undeserved adoration. But ever so slowly, as he’s worked to put the broken pieces of your heart back together bit by bit, you’ve found that you’re no longer so afraid to look into those stunning baby blues and accept the love that you find there.

And now, as you lay caged between his strong arms, you gaze unabashedly back at him, the unadulterated devotion brimming in his eyes mirrored in your own.

Looking up at him, it dawns on you—not for the first time—that everything about him, from the top of his head all the way down to his toes, is beloved to you. That golden brown curl that falls across his forehead when his hair, usually so immaculately kempt, is tousled from sleep and the sweep of your fingers. The crinkle around his eyes and the roundness of his cheeks as he smiles at you, those soft lips of his curving upward into a grin that could only be described as angelic despite the devilish things he does to you. The way his skin turns a faint shade of pink, as if even after all this time, he’s bashful about the way your body fits against his just so. That button nose that you can’t help but boop whenever you get the chance.

You reach up to trace his face with a gentle hand, slowly brushing one finger down the slope of his nose and outlining the bow of his lips.

If there ever came a day when you were robbed of the ability to stare at his precious face, you wanted to have every inch of it committed to memory.

He feels the same. You can tell from the way he caresses you, fingertips dancing across your skin as he touches your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your chin. His glasses are still resting on the bedside table where he left them last night, but you know he can still see every bit of you, his gaze as intensely focused as the lasers he locks on mission targets.

His gaze screams into the early morning stillness, You’re my entire world. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Smell.

His scent fills your lungs, fills every available crevice within you until all you can breathe is him. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even after two showers, the smell of jet fuel still clings to his skin, a fixture as permanent as the freckles sprinkled across the back of his neck. It’s a part of who he is, embedded in the blood that flows through his veins. You think of all the times he’s apologized for it, but you like it—even when he’s gone, it lingers on his pillow, a reminder that a part of him will always be with you and that he’ll be back in your arms soon enough.

Jet fuel blends with the woody scent of his body wash, an aroma that you inhale deeply as you bury your face in his neck, your bodies writhing together in a slow, lazy dance as his need for you grows more apparent with each second that passes.

You can actually smell it, the thick scent of desire that hangs over the room like a cloud. Even with the window partially ajar, the early morning breeze lilting through the curtains, it’s a powerful aphrodisiac, making your own need all the more acute.

As his hand trails downward and dips between your legs, you gasp quietly into his mouth, hooking your leg around his as his expert fingers bring you to the brink once again. And yet much too soon, he’s pulling his hand away and smiling at the little noise of protest that you make. He reaches up to grasp your face in his hand and press a kiss to your nose, and you can smell yourself on him. It gives you a little thrill, this thought that you’ve marked him for yourself. He is yours and no one else’s. No one else will ever know this part of him, the part of him that he saves just for you.

And no one else will know you the way that he does. He’s marked you, too, the scent of him heavy on your skin. You hope that it never fades away.

When he stretches his body over yours, fitting himself inside you the way that only he can, your breath and your bodies mingle together as one, and the fragrance of your lovemaking permeates the air.

It says, The rest of the world is gone. It could all fall away right now, forever, and it wouldn’t matter because I have you in my arms.

Sound.

His breathing is heavy in your ear, his panting punctuated by soft grunts and groans of pleasure as his hips roll in tandem with yours, filling you up as he whispers against your skin how beautiful you are, how precious you are to him, how much he loves you.

It’s like a symphony, every noise he makes, every word he whispers music to your ears as your own sighs and whimpers harmonize with his.

No one else could ever make your body sing the way he does.

No one else could ever draw those sounds from him the way you do.

He’s holding you tightly, so tightly, as he loses himself in the sensation of your body, your body that’s gripping him so intensely that he has no choice but to cry out in ecstasy, his moans echoing off the walls of your bedroom and rivaling the yearning coos of the mourning doves outside your window.

You’re crying out, too, his name falling from your lips over and over again in a breathless rush as you cling to him, your arms wrapped securely around his broad shoulders. You know that you’re not going to be able to last much longer.

From the labored sound of his breathing, he isn’t either.

You whisper in his ear that you’re close, that you’re about to fall apart for him.

He captures your lips with his own and whispers back that he’s close, too, that if you can just hold out a few seconds longer, he’ll be right there with you to accompany you into oblivion.

And so you do. You hold out just long enough until he’s practically sobbing your name, and then you tumble over the edge as well, the sound of his name reverberating off the walls until the two of you are lying still in the afterglow, panting and gasping for air.

You can hear his heart beating inside his chest as he collapses on top of you, still inside you as he nuzzles against your cheek, pressing lazy kisses to your jaw.

Running your fingertips up and down his back, you relish the magnificence of this still, slow morning and the beauty of the man you get to share it with.

All of it—touch, taste, sight, smell, sound—is such a glorious reminder of what it is to be seen and known and loved in a way you never would have thought possible before him.

“I love you, Bobby,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead.