I wake with a jolt, the dream that pulled me from sleep already fading into the cool dark comfort of reality. His hand on my hip tightens protectively even as he sleeps and I smile at that. The comfort of his awareness of me, and of his strength, wrap around me as tightly as his grip and I sink into it momentarily. When I settle, he does too and the weight of his sleeping body against mine is all the temptation I need to stay here just a little longer. My eyes close and for a moment, I think I may drift off again, but the pull of my waking responsibilities has sleep dancing just out of my reach. I glance at the clock- it's late, nearly midnight, and I've lost too much time already. We didn't intend to fall asleep, but this certainly wasn't the first time we'd lost track of both the time and our energy reserves in favor of getting wrapped up in one another for an hour or six, especially when time together had seemed so fleeting lately. The last tendrils of relaxation unwind, replaced instead by the vice of stress that seems to linger in every waking moment these days.
With a soft sigh, I begin to extract myself from our nest. I glance at his sleeping form as I pull away, checking to ensure I've not disturbed him as I shifted away. In his sleep, he is relaxation personified. All the careful control of his waking hours has given way to softness in every feature and line. I kiss his cheek lightly before slipping off the bed and grabbing his shirt from the floor where we'd discarded it in a rush as we'd fallen into bed hours before. I shrug it on, not bothering with the buttons and instead using it like a robe as I pad quietly down the stairs toward coffee and my waiting mountain of work.
There's just enough light streaming in through the kitchen window to make a pot of coffee by so I don't bother turning one on. Normally, I'd busy myself around the kitchen while I waited but in an effort to keep the house quiet so he stays asleep, I lean against the sink and stare out the window at the stars. They're bright here, where the light pollution is low and at this hour, the dark of night is thick enough to make out some of the lighter stars in the constellations I've almost learned by now.
When the coffee pot chimes its completion, I reluctantly pull my gaze from the endless wonder of the sky and pour myself some liquid brainpower. Returning the carafe to the counter, I grab my mug and begin analyzing my to-do list.
"It's too late for coffee."
His voice is playful and velvet-soft with sleep but entirely unexpected. I don't even register the mouthwatering sight of him leaning casually against the doorframe in nothing but his sleep pants as I whirl to face him. Instead, the momentum of my shock is enough for the steaming mug to slip from my hands. As it falls to the floor with a jarring crack, the splash of hot liquid against bare skin freezes me in place amid broken ceramic and spilled coffee.
But the same crack that stopped me in my tracks has him springing into action, all traces of sleep gone from his posture as alertness brightens his eyes. He is across the room before I can react, and stopping just short of the mess.
"Stay right there," he commands softly as he scans my body analytically. I wasn't planning to move but his tone and tenderness hold me in place. His gaze lingers on my calves, tracking over the worst of the coffee splash there. He crouches, navigating the broken mug as he reaches for a tea towel on the counter behind me and carefully dabs the liquid away to reveal tender pink skin. When he seems satisfied I'm mostly alright, he turns his attention to the mess. Luckily, the cup seems to have only broken in a couple places and the pieces are large enough to be picked up and discarded quite easily.
"I'd have let you drink the coffee, you know," he says teasingly with a glance at me as he reaches for the largest mug fragment, "You didn't have to quite literally throw it away."
Though I'm fully aware he's joking, my eyes go wide and I can't stop the rush of tears that well in them. His expression softens immediately and he reaches out, arms wrapping around me as he pulls me into his chest. I tuck my cheek against his heart and my arms wind around his waist, clutching him as the threat of tears becomes a reality and they rush down my cheeks. I'm not even really sure why I'm crying. Perhaps the adrenaline of the dropped mug, the startle of his sudden appearance or the lingering sting of the coffee. It's certainly not his words, but perhaps a mix of those things compounded on the stress of life and my general lack of sleep lately.
"Shhh, no no, it's alright. You're alright," he soothes, his lips against my forehead dropping a trail of tiny kisses as one hand runs through my hair gently, "I've got you."
And I know he does so I stop resisting and let the misplaced tidal wave of emotion pour out of me in the safety of his embrace. I cry, hard, amid the shards of ceramic and spilled coffee. He takes audible, even breaths, hands moving gently over my hair and spine in time with them. He holds me just like this until my silent sobs become soft sniffles and my breaths come in time with his.
He brings both hands to my jaw, tipping my face up to look at him as he drags the pads of his thumbs over my cheeks to wipe away the remaining tears with a reassuring smile, "Isn't there a German proverb or something that says breaking a cup is a good omen? I think I read that somewhere, anyway."
I smile, shrugging because I don't know a single German proverb. But of course he does. He's read most things somewhere, and I'm sure it's a proverb of some sort. My heart swells at the comfort he offers me, both physically and with his words. I reach up on tiptoe to kiss him, an impulsive wordless thank you that's just a gentle touch of my lips to his. Or it's meant to be anyway, but I am still clinging to his kiss when he gently nips my lower lip and my nails bite into his bare back in response. He groans into my mouth at the sharp sensation, and I'm gasping in the same instant so the deepening of the kiss is nearly involuntary as his tongue slides against mine. One of his hands still cups my jaw, holding me to him, but his pinky finger rests over my pulse and the other hand has found its way to my hair once more, tangling my curls around his fingers and tugging with a gentle, silent command- give in to me.
My response is nearly involuntary. The room has narrowed now to the two of us. His kiss suspends both my breath and reality in that moment, just briefly, as it always does before I slip into him. The perpetual undercurrent of his hold over me rushes to the surface, from a thing of being to a thing of doing. Just before it can pull me under though, he senses it. He pulls back, breaking the intensity of the kiss with a smaller one as he takes me in. My cheeks and chest are flushed, pupils dilated.
"Hey, kitten," his voice is light but his gaze is heavy on mine, as much a call back to reality as his words, "Not yet. Stay here a little longer, okay?"
I close my eyes and nod. I will give in to him, he wants me to, but not yet. Not yet.
The whirlwind weight of reality and my emotions settle back over me, and the mess we are standing amidst snaps back into focus. Once more I am aware that it's the middle of the night, my to-do list is a mile long, and I'm painted in coffee that's drying on my skin.
He takes me in, all the disheveled mess and tear stains. All the stress and tangled hair from his hands in it, both now and hours before. If he looks close enough, he'll find the remnants of his earlier orgasm, dried on the insides of my thighs. But he isn't looking for that. He smiles softly, fingertips running lightly down my arms to take my hands in his. He squeezes them as he seems to consider what he wants to do next.
"Come back upstairs with me," he decides.
I gesture vaguely at the mess with a weak, "But-"
"It's not going anywhere. It can wait. But this can't. Come upstairs with me." He cuts me off with certainty that leaves no room for my continued protests.
Releasing my hands, he grips my waist and lifts me clear of the mess before returning me to my feet and dry ground to lead me up the stairs and back to the bedroom. It's dark and warm there, and still smells like sex. Moonlight barely illuminates the mess we made of the bed, the reminder of our earlier playtime sparking the embers of lust still glowing from that kiss just a few minutes prior. Well, truly from the heat always simmering when I'm with him, the slow burn he ignites in me that never quite goes out and catches like wildfire when he...
... looks at me exactly as he is now. Fuck.
My breath catches first, on the heat in his eyes, and then the fire. He stands just a few paces away, gaze tracing my curves that are barely concealed beneath the open lapels of his dress shirt.
"Come here, kitten," the words aren't quite a growl but it's clear they're to be obeyed, and my body moves on autopilot toward him as he continues, "On the bed."
I move toward the bed and sit, pulling my feet beneath me to cross my legs, but he's shaking his head already.
"No. Not sitting. On all fours and take that shirt off. I want to see you."
Without hesitation, I adjust my position and do as he indicates. I push the open shirt down my arms with a brief shimmy and roll until my hands and knees are on the soft mattress, my bare ass in the air and my head turned to peek over my shoulder at him. Waiting for confirmation, or the next instruction, but already giddy at whatever is to come. Already feeling the slick, hot build of that pleasure between my thighs.
"Good girl," he praises, and he's closer to me now, close enough to touch me as he continues, "Look at you. Bare for me already." His hands are warm and gentle as he palms my ass, and I fight the urge to purr at the contact. But the fight doesn't last when his hands continue down the backs of my thighs and a whimpering sound of pleasure escapes me as he pushes them apart gently. He runs one finger over my already aching pussy and I hear his answering growl when he finds me wet and swollen. His touch does not linger there and instead continues down the backs of my thighs to my calves. The warmth of his touch grazes over the coffee-pinkened marks first before he kneels at the edge of the bed to kiss them gingerly.
