The rustle of air shifts around me, the curtains moving again, and a few beats pass before the mattress dips.
I hate when it dips.
It’s like all the margaritas in my blood just suddenly pulse and strike my brain.
So as he climbs onto the bed, I fall onto my back and let the whooshing in my head settle.
The pile of clothes slips from my grip.
He finds me in the dark.
His hand glides up my cheek, and holds.
The pressure of his thumb is just beneath my eye, and so he feels the flutter of my lashes.
For a heartbeat, he just holds me like that, curved over me in the darkness.
He waits it out.
The flutter of my lashes, the stirring in my head.
And still, he waits.
Patience is burrowed in him as his hand leaves my face and he soothes me. His fingers trace my arms, my shoulders, reacquainting himself with my body, as though he’s memorising every part of me he might have forgotten.
His fingertips leave my pebbled skin and loop around the small of my back.
He pushes me up the mattress until the pillow is perfectly fluffed and settled beneath my head, a contained feathery embrace that I sink into.
And I am caressed by his touch.
He drapes over me.
His weight should crush me, but I suspect he has his forearm pressed into the mattress and holding him up as he brings his kiss to my face.
I let my lashes shut on the adoration.
The softness of his full mouth brushes over mine. But the kiss doesn’t connect. It’s a graze, a caress, a tenderness that lures my eyes shut on the darkness.
My lips tingle.
The delicate graze of his fingers brushes along my shoulder, slipping the strap of the dress out of place. Then the touch of his fingertips glides over my breastbone for the other shoulder, leaving goosepimples in its wake.
He slips off the other strap.
His mouth brushes against mine—and I expect a soft kiss, but my brows shoot upwards as his teeth graze me instead.
He nips at my lips, a sharp but slight bite, before he’s tugging back.
On his knees, his hands firm on my sides and drag the dress down my body. The silk snags on the width of my hips.
I reach down for the thin zipper burrowed into the fabric—
But my hand is hit aside the moment I touch him, and he yanks the dress right off of me.
The nip. The bite. The whack.
He’s telling me to lie still.
