I love to kiss him when he is endorphined up and blissed, when everything in him is made soft and his eyes are glazed. He would be happy to lie there with me and float away, but when I touch his cheek he turns to face me, not really looking, not really, he is elsewhere, but I know he feels the feather-like touch through the haze.
His mouth is made so gentle when he is like this, his lips cushiony-soft and relaxed, and sometimes his tongue slips out to touch the tender skin there, abused and sore. In this state, he is innocent of the impact it has, the gesture oddly childlike.
If I pet his cheek, bring my face closer, he comes back, blinks slowly, and focusses on me, and in his look I see myself reflected back. In this moment, I am all the gods of fear and violence, and I am beauty and love and I swear that if I pushed a little harder, he would cry, or I would, perhaps both.
I touch my lips to his and I feel him shift into it, soft grazing touches, so as not to shock him out of his pillowy dream, his mouth slack at first, accepting and giving. I pull his face to me and slide closer to him, wanting his hot wet skin against me. He starts to shift to meet me, and we move together, scissoring our legs, and I make one fluid movement into him, to bring our hips together, to fit into him, to touch him everywhere, I wrap his head in my arms, tilt his face up to me.
And when I bring my mouth to his again, it is like we have never kissed before, like it is the first time over and over. He makes small sounds of wonder and aching desire, even though he is still not there with me. My mouth explores his lips gently, my tongue lapping at him softly, a foray into his dreamy state, and his surrender feels like drifting down into the depths of a quiet dark lake.
He whispers a tiny, “Please” at me, and I know he is asking for anything and everything, and nothing, all at the same time. I whisper, “Yes” into his mouth in a kiss and he sighs contentedly and melts himself into me.