Jasmine in the Morning

There she goes.

Moving through the house naked as if she's not the most distracting damn thing in the world to me.

Never mind that this happens every day because it's early morning and she works for a living. Never mind that she has no idea I'm watching her from the hall. Never mind that even if I were in the same room, she'd likely be lost in thought and not notice me anyway.

Never mind any of that.

No explanation justifies the havoc it wreaks on me when I see her without clothes, especially when she's unaware of being watched and moving in the way most natural to her. Maybe it's the vulnerability, rather than the nudity itself, that makes it so damn sexy. I mean, if all I wanted was to see a beautiful naked woman, I could certainly satisfy that need without standing at the end of our dark hallway holding my breath, silently praying this show never ends.

Maybe it's none of that.

Maybe it's the fact that when I see her like this I'm flooded with memories. The sound of her laughter bubbling up inside until it shakes her entire body. That look in her eyes after a passionate kiss. The gentle pressure of her fingertips against my temples when I can't tolerate a migraine any longer. The love in her voice every time I ask her to marry me and she responds the same way every time.

Maybe that's it.

Maybe it's the fact that after fifteen years of discretely (and not so discretely) watching this woman, I never tire of it. I've seen her almost every way imaginable, and the same damn thrill courses through me. Every. Single. Time. I keep expecting the thrill to fade, but it just never does.

Whatever the reason, I lean against the wall and revel in the full experience of my Jasmine readying herself for the day. Inadvertently holding my breath at intervals, I smile as a hint of lavender wafts down the hall, tickling my nose at the same moment her indiscernible whispers reach my ears. Loving the way my body responds to watching her, I long to taste her, to feel her warm, damp skin beneath my fingers.

Unaware that my legs are carrying me to her, my eyes squint hard as I step into the bright bedroom from the dark hallway. She startles, reliably, and cocks her head to the side ever so slightly. A gesture I recognize is meant to express her mild irritation. It doesn't last. It never lasts when I reach for her in apology, the beginning of a smile tugging at my mouth.

"How long have you been watching me?" She asks, half serious and half touched. Something has alerted her to the fact that I've been watching her. I've never been able to figure out what gives me away, but inevitably, something does. She can always tell.

"Not long enough, sexy," I say, pulling her to me and placing my lips against the side of her elegant neck.

"You're such a stalker," she chides before a soft moan vibrates in her throat.

"You'd miss it if I ever stopped, so why must you complain," I challenge.

"Hmm," she replies, lips pursed.

Laughter rumbles inside me, my love for her growing as this oft-repeated and entirely predictable scene plays out. She swats my shoulder in reprimand, feigning irritation at how well I know her, then wraps her long, slender arms around my shoulders and leans into my lips at her neck. Needing no further encouragement, I slide my mouth up to the place that always makes her moan and relax into me, touching my teeth to her skin.

"Oh no you don't," she warns, placing her hands on my chest and pushing away. "I do not have time for this, and I'm fresh out of excuses for being late to work this week."

Now it was my turn to mumble, "Hmm," feigning disappointment despite expecting it all to play out just as it had.

"You're going to be the death of me, Woman," I spout, falling into the mattress face down, choosing to listen, instead of watching her complete her morning routine.

It made no difference. I'd seen 'My Favorite Show', as I called it, enough times to know what she was doing and exactly how she looked doing it just by the sound. On she went as if I hadn't just held her naked body to mine and put my warm mouth against the special spot on her neck.

I would never understand how she moved so completely from extreme-opposite moods without any transition time. I sure can't do that, I acknowledge, mere moments before the bedroom goes silent. Figuring she's moved to the kitchen to begin her coffee ritual, a disappointed sigh escapes me as I realize it'll be hours before she might touch me again.

I wrestle with the decision to get up and see her on her way or just remain here feeling sorry that she's not as crippled with lust by my nudity as I am by hers. No more had the thought crossed my mind than warm fingers pressed into my hamstrings and made a bee-line for the very core of me. Beyond startled, my whole body tensed and froze for a moment.

"Babe!" I yelp, surprised I wasn't alone after all.

"Hush," she commands, her tone soft while leaving no room for discussion.

Willing my body to relax, I exhale slowly and turn all my awareness to her touch along the back of my legs. Closer. Ever closer. She might be an open book in many instances, but she's anything but predictable when she reaches for me with desire.

Our first night together, her very first time with a woman in fact, she pressed a long slender finger against me and plunged inside with such certainty and possession that I would never be the same. At that moment, I belonged to her: mind, body, and soul, for as long as she wanted me. Ever since, all I do is yearn for her, the way she takes me, claims me for her very own.

Lost in the reverie of all things Jasmine, my mind snaps back to the present as pleasure courses through me, her fingers once again demanding entrance without knocking first. I may never understand what it is about the way she moves into me, but I hope to god it never changes. Having only recently woken up, I delight in the way her fingers massage my body awake from the inside out.

A long, low moan escapes into the room as my arms and legs spread across the bed and she eases into a rhythm, setting off the chain of events that would lead to my ultimate surrender. Had I been capable of rational thought, I'd have wondered at the mystery of something so familiar managing to feel so fresh and igniting every time. Instead, I twist the quilt in my fists as she adds another slender digit and fills my world with dark and stars.

God, I love the miracle of us, my hips seem to say as they rise off the mattress, reaching for her, forcing her ever deeper, my body matching her rhythm as if it was designed only for her and the tempo she set. Rocking ever faster against her thrusting hand, my breath grows ragged and time ceases to exist until that little switch inside me gets its first twitch. Then another twitch until all that exists for me is the rapid building of these tiny twitches, stronger and more concentrated by the second.

I am vaguely aware of her breath coming in quick puffs against my back when she expertly flips my switch with a swift final thrust, stretching me the last little bit necessary to reach the sublime. Three fingers massage the magic spot inside, sending me tumbling through the universe of ecstasy, as my gasps and moans fill the room. This is a natural moment of panic for me, the control freak that I am. But I am safe now, rooted to my sanity by her free hand taking hold of my hip as my body quivers, hard at first, then ever gentler as my breath returns at its leisure.

She knows my struggle and never leaves me at my most vulnerable. She's the only one that ever took the time to know. More than that, she always treats it as sacred, providing a safe harbor and anchoring me lest I drift off into the great wide unknown.

"Marry me," I croak into the mattress, as she withdraws her hand and kisses my calf.

"Every day," she replies, her voice trailing off in the direction of the bathroom.

I hear the sink turn on and roll over, listening to the tune of her handwashing. I wonder what excuse she'll use at work this time and try to slow my heart rate as I await her return. Would she slip out of her work clothes, or would I get the joy of removing them one at a time before hauling her back to bed? It was fun to wonder.

Instead, she emerges from the bathroom, abruptly crosses the bedroom fully dressed, plants a quick kiss on my forehead, and walks straight out the door.

"Hey! Where are you going? There's unfinished business here!" I shout after her.

"Is there? It sure looked finished from where I was standing," She quips, her voice fading down the hall.

"Touché," I say to the ceiling fan, falling back against the pillows as the garage door opener rumbles and she gets into her car.

I want to run after her, to demand an opportunity to satisfy her until she begs me to stop, but I know better. It's pretty out of character for her to interrupt the routine unless she plans to shake up the entire day, so I'll enjoy what we've just shared and let it go.

Still, the more I get of her, the more I want.

So instead of letting it go, I plot my revenge.

After all, tomorrow morning is Saturday.