His Love

They are brown. Brown like soil saturated with water that sticks on your shoes if you step in it. Brown like a tree trunk in one of those never-ending forests you read about in stories, ones that are humid and make your hair stick to the back of your neck and the sides of your face after wandering. Brown like two cups of milk-less coffee sitting next to each other on a wooden table top. Brown like dark chocolate.

And they are mine. Mine to look into if I wish, get lost into. Or switch between the two quickly while they try to catch the hazel of mine, that are also his. But my favorite thing to do is to watch them lighten- like dry sand on the beach, with happiness.

He smiles at me, and most times I can't help but smile back. Here we are, the two of us, him and I. And I wonder if I have half the effect on him as he does on me. Most times I do, and he can't help but wrap his right arm around my neck and kiss the side of my head, smiling and calling me cute. And I'd smile. The brown would vanish, rested by their lids, curved upward in a smile.

His skin is that tan-olive color of his ethnicity. It reminds me of leather, tough where it needs to be and smooth everywhere else. His hair is darker, so dark brown that it's probably black. But every now and then, it catches in the sun just right and it's clearly only as dark as his eyes.

He has all of the magic that boyfriends and lovers need to have, if even for the moment. He knows when to say something, and when to listen. His arms belong on me, no matter my mood. And I can be perfectly content kissing nothing but his chest my whole life, so long as I can still rest my head on it while we lay together.

His lips are dark red and thin, and can be beautiful either closed in silence or stretched with glee. They always match his eyes, and show me what his eyes cannot. They can whisper, they can demand- and with the matching tone, make me melt all over again.

When he demands, I do not always listen. This will earn me the loss of sight by silk or satin, or the loss of motion by metal or rope. But he knows me- he knows every inch of my vulnerable naked body. He knows me- every crook and cranny of my mind. And he'll take care to return me as he found me: fair and flawless. A freckle here and there, but smooth and scar-less.

And if I leave it up all day, he'll take my ties out and let my hair fall down. No matter when, it'll be damp from my shower and the herbal scents from my conditioner will radiate outwards. He likes it, and will let it linger on his pillows as long as I want it to. He'll fall asleep with it later, when I'm gone. But for now, he'll run his fingers through it, bury them in it while he kisses me that way no one else knows. Or he'll gather it all up and pull it back so he can access my neck better. Later, he'll jokingly complain that I shed, and my hair is consuming his bedroom. But he loves each and every red strand.

His hair is best when it's soaked and black. I can run my hands through it easily, tangle my fingers in it without giving him knots. Scratch his scalp, give him playful hairstyles only I'll get to enjoy. And he tolerates it because he loves my laugh.

When he whispers, I fall. When we rest, my face at his chest, his arm on my waist, our socked feet interlaced, my arm up his back, fingers scratching light messages only they know. He'll kiss my forehead and I'll draw closer to him if it's possible, and I'll try anyways. And sometimes we don't have to talk; we're content in the silence.

Sometimes we aren't, and if I become too bold for him, he'll remind me where I belong. Against a wall and his stronger body. On the bed beneath him. Held in place sitting on a counter. All I have to do is speak. All I have to do is snap my fingers, or clap. He'll stop. But I won't, and he knows I won't unless I mean it. But I don't. I enjoy it. His harsh, angry kisses that are meant to silence my soul. All the better when he holds my face to his so I can't escape. I have to remind myself to breathe, though I don't want to. It requires too much concentration.

He dares to let go of my face, hoping my lips won't leave his while he fingers at the seam of my shirt, debating. I'll return the kiss with vigor, dig my nails in the backs of his shoulders, and sometimes even whimper. He laughs and puts my anticipation at ease with one swift motion over my head. If my hair falls, he'll grip it and bend my head back. I'll burrow my fingers in his hair and rest them there with pressure. His mouth leaves my chest enough to free it entirely, and then he returns to taking care of what's his. My hands move down to his shoulders, his neck. And the only space between us is cloth. He grips, kisses and bites as hard as he is, and still I press closer.

He'll kiss me right under my belly button and rub my legs over my pants. I'm dying to touch him, but if I stop him now I'll break the spell. And the torment will start all over.

He moves so he can look at me, and I feel myself blush. I turn my head and close my eyes. He draws lines from my knee to the joint of my hip and thigh. If I sigh, whimper or moan, I'm deaf to it. He thrives on it. I can hear his smile. He finally brushes against me, and my whole being convulses, wanting more. He listens, but does not give me too much. Just enough to trace me, and lingers where he knows my breathing will break uneven. It makes him smile.

Then he presses firmly, with one single finger on his skilled hand and I claim it immediately with another wave of ecstasy. If there are pillows nearby, I'll smother my face with it. He'll let me for a short while, then he'll throw it out of range, smile at me, and kiss my lips softly. He'll linger there, observing me with his loving coffee eyes as he adds more of himself to me. This is no time for words.

He moves, and I'm attentive again. Because I know what he's going to do, while I watch him reposition himself lower between my thighs. Rapture blossoms in my stomach and I can't relax. Not anymore, not until it's over. My hands move between his hair and the sheets, counter edge, couch cover, wall... He reads my reactions and moves accordingly, but never takes his eyes off me. Nor I him. Not until it's over. I feel his smile, and for the first time I can hear myself. It makes me turn red, which makes him smile more. He doesn't smile like that when he kisses my mouth.

And then it happens. I try not to look away, but it never works. It's like stretching- my back arches and my head sinks into my pillow, my eyes squeezed shut, my thighs and arms fatigued. He lets me ride it out slowly until my little performance is finished and my body blushes.

He leans back up and plants one solid kiss on my forehead, and then another on my lips. I can taste myself on him. And now, now I can touch him.