"Listen to you saying all of those sweet things." She raised an eyebrow at me as she twisted around, the first slivers of dawn slicing across her face, an insult, a reminder that soon I would have to leave this bed and the woman in it for the slow grind of real life. I sighed heavily, switching positions so that I could lay against her chest, her soft woman-ness against me.
"All part of the service." I kissed her belly, worked my way downward. "Would you like me to?"
"I'm touched you'd ask." She said, her hand running though my hair, pushing like a breeze.
I rolled my shoulders, kissed her thigh, "Well, you know, I thought I'd better check in."
"I couldn't think of a better way to wake up," she said, her smile rising on her features, imbuing them with all the glitter of sunrise on water.
I pressed my mouth against her soft folds, her labia opening up to my tongue, licking the length of her until I reached that nub of hardening flesh and sucked gently, her fingers winding into my hair, pulling me closer. I moved lower, focusing on sliding my tongue into her with relish that I had no qualms in showing. I was desperate to make her happy, to show her with my words and my body that her happiness is mine, too.
After Paris, I began to understand what she had fought in her youth, saw just how it affected her and the idea that I could change that seemed too tantalising to ignore. It was a goal I had to set myself to. I developed a new kind of vigour in the way I cared for her, I left more notes, made her more cups of coffee, told her everyday that I loved her and wanted nothing but her happiness. Most of the time, I would arrive home from work before her and try to make things easier for her by starting dinner (which she always tried to take over once she arrived) and pouring her wine, offering her foot rubs. As the months went on, she blushed less when I offered these things and began to sink into the habit, open up to the idea that I did these things out of love not for any other reason.
It wasn't the first time I'd woken her for sex, we were well accustomed to the habit, but it had taken on a renewed meaning after our time apart. I noticed myself becoming more protective of her. For a while, I had the crawling suspicion that it was possessiveness, jealousy that sought to enclose her as she tried so desperately to break free. I told her as much and she laughed in my face, told me that I shouldn't be so absurd and that the very reason why she would always come back to be was precisely because we didn't need each other. I understood what she meant, but then there seemed very little else apart from oxygen that I did need. Even then, the thought of being crushed between her thighs seemed deliciously appealing.
