I want to be your monster. The terrible thing you make a pact with to hold you in the night and keep you safe. Who keeps you close and warm and safe from all the other bumps in the night. The man who's presence can lull you to sleep or wake you up with a gasp, merely from where I touch you. To keep you as secure in my grip as you are in my thoughts.
---
Something about you rouses me from sleep and I find my hands sliding through your hair in the scant light of the pre-dawn. It takes a moment to adjust, to really come back into focus, so I let my hands do my thinking for me. They travel the length of you dark hair to the end and a few extra inches over your ashen skin.
You stir, emitting a pleasant moan. And with it I am brought back to life instantly.
My blue eyes open to scan over you as my hand slides down your back, over your spine, and back up your side. I make small circles and designs playing over it as I become aware of heavy breathing, my elevated heart rate. The cock you've made insufferably hard just by being as desirable as you are.
This time, when my hand slides over the nape of your neck and you moan, I growl lowly and feel my cock stretch in a painful jut forward.
There must be some expectation here because you do not move at all. No shift or waking in any way. How many times have you made me growl for you before its even light outside? How often have I painted little invisible symbols on your back so that you don't even wake when it's happening?
I move closer to you, my left hand snaking up to reach under you so I can slide my index finger up and down the front of your neck. My right hands surfs along your curves, from your knee up to the middle of your thigh. From your hip to the small of your stomach and up your ribs and over your arm. It's a journey I've made a thousand times and want to make a million more. I am only a man though, and my hand drops to move over the side of your right breast.
There is no way I can avoid touching them, not if I can help it, and often if I can't. I wonder how any man could. My fingers trace along the outer rim, touching both your breast and the skin of your chest, doing my best to avoid your nipple. I trace a concentrated circle around the edge before drifting aimlessly across your torso, your thighs and up again as a second finger begins to stroke the front of your neck.
My cock is too hard and full to hide, so I press the whole of my body up against yours, and let it fall between your thighs. There is just the hint of heat of and wetness without touching and knowing it's there, how close I am, makes just the tiniest bit of human escape through hot, wanting breath.
You mumble something in sleep talk, but I do not hear it. And it doesn't matter what it was at this point—the outcome is set.
Fingers stop stroking your neck and instead my hand slowly clasps around it, not to tighten or choke in anyway, just to hold it. To claim you. To have you in hand because I can't get any closer to you.
Something dark rises to the surface. It wants to talk from the back of my throat and move hot blood through my body like I'm running in the summer. Like I'm dying of thirst and I need to squeeze water out of you. As though there is no other way for us to be. It ramps up the sensation of your skin on mine, of my touch on you, of the closeness of our bodies and the cold comfort of the night. It tells me to smell you.
And it is so right to do so. This is when you smell best. When there is only the after-hint of perfume, when the shampoo has all but left. When the only thing I get, truly sense, is you. The smell of your hair. Your skin. It is intimate and close and I wouldn't trade it for any other thing you can give until I need the next part of your more.
Lips press into your shoulder. Long, slow pulses pressed into you before I suck the tiniest bit. Move and repeat. No quick trail, no rapid burst, just me trying my best to get some of the taste of you in my mouth.
