It was in that moment that he felt himself for the first time in years. It wasn't necessarily the fact that there was a woman next to him in bed, but that he had made a connection, something that he had not felt the spark of in years. It was a calming infatuation that loosened the coiled nerves of all people. That was a desire he knew all too well: loneliness and the need to challenge it.
He took a moment of his time to look at her, his vice even if she were only a blip in the greater picture of his life, and he enjoyed the sight of her sleeping. While she had eyes of sparkling spring water reflecting the moss on the riverbed, and that they burned with a passion that could only be rivaled by the same reckless abandon, he was pleasured by them being closed while she slept. Her hair light and wavy against her sun-kissed skin. She looked much like he did, and that gave him a warmth that he savored.
While she slept, he stroked her back with his fingertips; slow, languid movements that sighed against her skin. Typically when he laid with a woman it was immediate and charged with a violent need to expell those physical desires so that he may focus on his work. As they slumbered, he snuck out into the night, absconding with what he needed and no more. Sometimes there was a necessary play of words required to bed a woman, while other times it was just the common sharing need to just be fucked.
Right now he felt different.
Already they had slept for a few hours before one or the other would wake aroused, and engage the other. It was a pleasing sensation that left his body desiring her more and more. Better to drive it hard and fast and be done with it; the candle that burned twice as bright lived half as long. Yet for now, he was not yet satiated, still incomplete. So he merely let his mind drift unfocused in the afterglow.
There was a curling locket of hair resting on the side of her nose. It brought a small smile to him. Making sure not to turn while she slept upon his chest, he moved the strand back, careful not to make contact with her ear. He had already proven himself correct, knowing that, given her racial history, her ears were highly sensitive. There were ways of sparking wanton desire with a certain touch, and he was tempted momentarily to entice the emotional responses to a more heartfelt reaction.
That was what it would be, a reaction to his action, and it may have been because of that that he resisted the impulse.
Her arm was draped across his midriff and he committed to memory the difference in contrast between their skin tones. The similarities became fundimental and the differences were the flavor. It felt right, if only for a moment.
He knew that he should get up soon, he knew he had to get back to work. But it was so hard to move when contentment fought with an iron fist. So he laid his head back onto the pillow and continued to trace random, meaningless patterns across her back, mermorizing the touch and sensation of her in every possible way he could, until he could recall at will. Because when she was gone--there was no lying to himself about her and her free spiriting ways--he would be able to relive those moments, helping him to get by just a while longer.
He took a moment of his time to look at her, his vice even if she were only a blip in the greater picture of his life, and he enjoyed the sight of her sleeping. While she had eyes of sparkling spring water reflecting the moss on the riverbed, and that they burned with a passion that could only be rivaled by the same reckless abandon, he was pleasured by them being closed while she slept. Her hair light and wavy against her sun-kissed skin. She looked much like he did, and that gave him a warmth that he savored.
While she slept, he stroked her back with his fingertips; slow, languid movements that sighed against her skin. Typically when he laid with a woman it was immediate and charged with a violent need to expell those physical desires so that he may focus on his work. As they slumbered, he snuck out into the night, absconding with what he needed and no more. Sometimes there was a necessary play of words required to bed a woman, while other times it was just the common sharing need to just be fucked.
Right now he felt different.
Already they had slept for a few hours before one or the other would wake aroused, and engage the other. It was a pleasing sensation that left his body desiring her more and more. Better to drive it hard and fast and be done with it; the candle that burned twice as bright lived half as long. Yet for now, he was not yet satiated, still incomplete. So he merely let his mind drift unfocused in the afterglow.
There was a curling locket of hair resting on the side of her nose. It brought a small smile to him. Making sure not to turn while she slept upon his chest, he moved the strand back, careful not to make contact with her ear. He had already proven himself correct, knowing that, given her racial history, her ears were highly sensitive. There were ways of sparking wanton desire with a certain touch, and he was tempted momentarily to entice the emotional responses to a more heartfelt reaction.
That was what it would be, a reaction to his action, and it may have been because of that that he resisted the impulse.
Her arm was draped across his midriff and he committed to memory the difference in contrast between their skin tones. The similarities became fundimental and the differences were the flavor. It felt right, if only for a moment.
He knew that he should get up soon, he knew he had to get back to work. But it was so hard to move when contentment fought with an iron fist. So he laid his head back onto the pillow and continued to trace random, meaningless patterns across her back, mermorizing the touch and sensation of her in every possible way he could, until he could recall at will. Because when she was gone--there was no lying to himself about her and her free spiriting ways--he would be able to relive those moments, helping him to get by just a while longer.
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