Stroking

We are curled together, my back to his stomach, it is warm and quiet, and maybe he thinks I am asleep. He strokes the side of my body, almost absently, but I know it is not without thought and I know there is a slight fear that I might stop him, that he might not be allowed this unbidden touching.

His touch is not tentative or hesitant, starting at the side of my breast, he strokes downwards, over each of my ribs, dipping low at my waist, then slipping up over the rise of my hip, I want to make a sound, but remain silent, motionless. His touch leaves me, and then again, the roller coaster glide over my curves from the top, the swell, the corrugation, the dip, the rise. It is so quiet I can hear him breathing, deep and slow, he holds his breath on the stroke and I can feel his thoughts through his fingertips, his sweetness, his affection, his gratefulness, his desire, his fear, all laid bare as his hand slides down my body again. I want to arch into it like a cat, to stretch and luxuriate in it, to reach back and bring his mouth to me, but it is hypnotic and it is his to own and I don’t want to break the spell.

I close my eyes and wait for the next stroke, which comes slipping down my skin like silk, and I melt into it and I try not to hold my breath as I wait for the next one.