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There you were. You poured yourself like honey on the white silk sheets. There was nothing neat about the bed. The sheets and the dark, rose-red down comforter had not been primly turned down but were gathered in bunches and folds. The bed, itself, was full and deep and comfortable. Like you. It took up the middle of the room, because you always liked it that way, with misty curtains hanging around it from the ceiling and none at all on any of the windows. It was the only piece of furniture in the room. We had moved everything else into the living room and along the short hallway. It had been you idea and it made me laugh. Then it made me love you a little more. And you poured yourself into the bed, onto the sheets, nestled on pillows and the rich color of the comforter and the moonlight through the bare windows.
You weren’t shy, though I expected you to be. There had been no man before for you, no other woman before me. It was a first for you, and you should have been shy or afraid. But you weren’t. There was such a poignant hunger in your eyes, a yearning that made me stop and just look at you. And you trusted me. It was amazing how much you trusted me. I had never been a conqueror, never wanted anyone so young and inexperienced. I never knew what I really wanted except that it had to be good and I had to like myself when I was in it. I never thought it would be you. So it was a first for me, too.
You waited for me, when I was waiting for you. you were so beautiful and I wanted you so much. I didn’t think it was possible to touch such beauty and not die from the joy of it. And above all, I didn’t want to rush. I didn’t want you to get hurt. But you were patient and you waited for me to climb into bed with you. I never had your grace, but none of that mattered as I stretched out beside you. You came to me, rolled into my arms and let me hold you. Oh! You were so warm and so soft, and all of your wonderful curves nuzzled against me. I was holding an angel.
You wanted to know. It was a painful kind of pleasure to lie there as you ran your hands over me. You followed every swell, smoothed every inch. I cried out when your fingers found my breasts, when your hands cupped them and discovered them, when your mouth drew them tentatively. You thought you’d hurt me, done something wrong. No. It was me. I was on fire for you and lay still for you so you wouldn’t be afraid. I could have hurt you with the passion you stoked. But I kissed you instead.
I held you there with that kiss, our mouths open to each other, our tongues firm and searching, our bodies still as I tried to slow my breathing. But I came anyway, pressed against your mouth and body. And you didn’t know. How could you? It had never been like that for me. And it was only the beginning. I still wanted to touch you, to explore you, to show you all the things you only ever imagined.
We kissed and you were good at it. It seemed I could spend all night tasting your mouth, opening your lips. Together. Then one at a time. Just kissing you, in as many ways as we could imagine. You weren’t still, then. Neither of us were. Wile my hands moved smoothly over your body, yours roamed fiercely over mine. I rocked with you, one arm cradling you and the other hand wandering the roundness of your bottom. You were panting, gasping for air, for more. I pushed you gently away, against the pillows. I brushed your hair from your face, even when there was none there, so that you’d know that it was alright. That it wasn’t over.
I kissed your face, and your eyes, and the shallow depressions at your temples. I kissed you quiet. I kissed you still. You were touching me, making your hand a part of my flesh everywhere it went. I sampled your lips again. I tasted the line of your jaw and the hollows of your neck. I savored your skin. Deep pink buds grew from your swelling breasts, and I took one gently in my mouth. My heart raced when I heard you and I had to pull away just to look at you, to see how beautiful you were in that moment. You were radiant.
I swallowed your voice with a kiss. I tasted your cries and gave them flavor as my hand made you sing. Your breasts filled my hands and your body rose to meet me. I pushed my fingers along and over your belly, down into the warmth beyond. You had done as I had, and were smooth and bare there. I told you it would be better that way, didn’t I? Without anything there to come between us, to buffer the sensations. It was silk and heat, and you were open for me.
One finger played along the thickest petals, not quite daring to venture in. Teasing you. You were amazingly motionless, your legs spread wide and arms forgotten at your sides. Then your hips undulated in a slow rhythm as I lightly traced and moved each fold from largest to smallest, whispering over that hard pink blossom that rose with quiet urgency. The sounds you made! It was like a Siren caught by Poseidon’s divine lust, the waves crashing against her and her own ecstasy fueling the power of her voice, bringing the mariner’s fate to land and sweeping away all who were not blest by the gods or goddesses. As I was not, because I was swept away and loved you completely then, while you rose and shuddered and sand your release.
I loved you. It was both a blessing and a curse. You left me too soon.
It was wonderful how you used to light up a room with your laughter, your smile. How you used to slide into my lap and play teasingly with my breasts and pinch my nipples lightly and deliciously. You wanted me as much as I wanted you: like air, like breath, every moment. Didn’t you? Weren’t we fantastic together? Wasn’t it Heaven? I’ll never understand why you left, though in a small way I know I’m to blame.
It was a beautiful night for a walk. I should have never let you go. I should have tried harder to convince you to stay. I should have gone with you: safety in numbers. But I didn’t. And you were alone, taking a walk on a beautiful summer night. I’m sorry I let you go. I hate that I had to, that I had to let you do those little things you did. Whimsical. Spontaneous. Carefree. Totally you. I couldn’t stop you from being you because I couldn’t stop loving who you were.
I have to stop coming here. It isn’t healthy, and you’ve been gone so long already. I brought a rose, because I’m not sure how these things are done. I hope no one takes it.
Thank you for the time you gave me, for loving me. For letting me love you. I think I’ll always be waiting for you, though I know you won’t be coming home.
Anyway, it’s snowing. I’d better go. I think I’ll take a walk before it gets too dark.
And I’ll go home.
