Picture a day in which we're too exhausted to go anywhere. Our backyard houses one of those wide hammocks that tie to either side of a stand. We assembled it the day you bought it, stashed a few books in a storage bin underneath, and haven't gone back to it since.
"It's time we spend the whole day here," you say, already walking toward it.
Leaving the blanket from our bed on the grass, you roll into the hammock, wearing only your pajama bottoms. I follow in my nightgown and nuzzle cold feet into your sides. You indicate that you are not impressed. I smirk defiantly, but privately worry that you don't want my feet next to you. Reassuring me there's no place you'd rather they be, you lift them one after the other, raising yourself just high enough to kiss each. We smile knowingly at each other and reach for our books.
Out of respect for each other's quiet study we leave our limbs by our sides for over an hour. There is no need to voice what we both know: you can smell me, and my knee can feel Him anxiously awaiting more attention. I lay my book cracked open onto my chest and scoot back so that my big toe can reach him. As I caress each side from base to tip, you moan softly with the morning voice I adore. I miss feeling your balls in my hand and on my tongue but, I tell myself, we have all day.
I wink at you, taking pleasure in your full attention, and flip my book back up. I pretend to be able to concentrate on reading while gently flicking the skin your balls hang from with my toes. I try to ignore your noises but I cannot help the growing wetness between my legs. You slide a leg out from under me and graze my side with your foot, slowly examining the bones of my ribs and hip through the cotton.