Aftershocks

I sit on the sofa, smiling absently into space as my daughter finishes her homework and her father surfs the ‘net. Recalling my activities earlier in the day, I flush and shift against the cushions. An eyebrow cocks in my direction and I smile apologetically as I continue to squirm inwardly. Settling back into the corner, I draw a throw over my still-quivering thighs as my memories continue to rush over me.

My bien aimé is leaning over me, his mouth soft and yielding against mine while his hand tangles and fists in my hair, a pleasurably painful pull. His lips roam my throat, making my knees buckle and my breath come short. My hands glide over the corded muscle of his back, following the ridge of his spine. Cheekily, I slide my hand around the curve of his buttock, smiling against his lips as his chuckle vibrates against them.

Homework completed, I usher my child up the stairs, trying desperately to concentrate on her evening rituals: tooth brushing, pajama wrangling, and story reading. All her questions satisfactorily answered, I tuck her into bed, turn on her bedtime music, and flick off the light. Retiring to my bedroom, I begin undressing for the shower, only to flash back as my fingers close over the buttons of my shirt.

His hand smoothes over my ribs, brushing just under my breast, tantalizing me into arching toward him. Slender, graceful fingers close over me, pulling a sigh straight from my soul. When those fingers are replaced by his generous mouth, my sighs turn to trembling moans, and my own fingers clutch spasmodically in the material of his shirt.

Swathed in terrycloth, I run the shower scalding hot. Stepping free of my robe, I duck into the purifying force and bow my head under the spray. As I rasp a soapy washcloth over highly sensitized skin, I am awash in stimulation. My memories continue to sweep over me as the hand holding the washcloth travels lower, seemingly following my thoughts. As it traces lazy circles along my kindled flesh, I fall limply against the shower wall, feeling the contrast of my scorched skin against the chill of the tile. The convergence of hot and cold, combined with the gentle abrasion of cloth against my slick skin, causes a sparkling coalescence that leaves me grateful for the support of the wall, however chilly, during this aftershock.

Held gently against the shoulder of my bien aimé, his hand resting on my face, I close my eyes and breathe slowly, trying to calm my racing heart. Content to just be for a moment, my lips curve as I feel his thumb sweep along my jawline. Rising slowly, I press a soft kiss to his lips, and, renewed, I leave him.