October 05, 2008

Whiskey Kisses

By Betty After Dark © 2008

His 6'2" frame leaned against the town-car when I exited the terminal. Spontaneous embraces turned to awkward filler conversation for the short ride to the house.

He was a gentleman, carried my bags into the house and placed them in my room at the top of the stairs, his left at the base.

They had left a light on for us. A note. A map of words for us find our way to the cooler on the porch filled with Fosters oil cans, to the black smoked glass Whiskey cabinet, and cold quiche in the fridge.

The rest of the house was sound asleep. Our voices lingering at a breathy whisper, keeping close to one another to be heard. It had long been decided that sleep would come later for us. The two who traveled furthest, with so much to say. So much to hear.

Surrounded by sofas and chairs. A living room here, family room there. And we chose to remain perched on the counter tops in the kitchen. Two artists. Dreamers. Adventurists. Stories of fierce loyalty, romantic gestures and wanderlust. Bursts of laughter where we forgot the sleeping house. Moments of pause as the memories of pained hearts lingered in the air between us. We had known each other for years, and yet the things left to still learn were vast and exciting. Peeling back the layers, uncovering two complex but similar souls.

Held apart by distance and circumstance, brought together in soft voices, the pieces of who we are fill the room with every drink we pour. The gaps in our lives slowly closing as the light from the window crept into the room. There was something unavoidable that connected us, but the details were never as clear as they were this night.

The waning crescent began to fade into the first dawn. I reached for him. On my tippy-toes to wrap myself around his neck. Resting my lightened head on his chest, then peering around him I notice the time on the clock; 4:14am glowed in the dim light of the kitchen. The house would be awake soon.

Family expansion and remodeling had reduced the guest quarters. Only one was left by the time we arrived so bedding was folded up on the many couches to accommodate everyone. I had drawn the room. The windows pulled open and birds already were awake on the power lines outside. Chatting with each other and filling with room with lyrical envy. The old iron bed made up with mismatched sheets that had a faint smell of the winter's fires squeaked when I crawled in. A gentle exhale, a smile parted my lips, knowing that in a few short hours the house would be full of the smells of breakfast.

The street was silent. The air still and warm, was damp with humidity. I laid perfectly still. Listening to the outdoors fill my insides. Birds chirping and the raccoon scurrying across the roof. I heard the plank floors began to shift from the movement of feet below. A slight shuffle and the wood stairs crunched under the weight. My heart thumped in my chest. Hard and thick pounding through my skin. I felt it in my entire body. A silent pause at the top of the stairs and a few steps to the right and I froze. Breathing stopped as three, maybe four, more steps were taken towards my room. I knew he was standing in the doorway. I kept my eyes closed, watching him with my ears.

He moved slowly into the room. Closed the door with cautious silence. The click of the latch and the squeak of the handle when he released it. Old wood door. Then the sound of him stepping out of his jeans and pulling the layers over his head, drowned out by the echoing beat of my heart, stuck in the back of my throat. With painful slowness, he pulled back the sheets and slipped effortlessly next to me. Wrapping his arms tightly around me and letting a warm breath escape his mouth onto the back of my neck.

On him, a faint hint of the days travel. He smelled like a man. Like the mountains of Montana. And he felt like a man. Solid with muscles. Strong. Holding me so close to him. The hair on his chest pressed against my back and without a thought I reached behind me for his leg. His muscular frame defined beneath my touch. A runner's thigh. Tight, flexing calf as he tucks his knees up under me. An unfamiliar body that I instinctively melted in to.

I move to him. To take his hand, thick and masculine, and weave my fingers between his. Instinctively he squeezes and pulls me closer. Comfort turns to anticipation when I take his face in my hands. Soft whiskers from a weeks worth of growth like cashmere against my palms, I pull his lips to mine. Controlled breathes beneath whiskey kisses.

No words, just exquisite touches. Tactile introductions flow a welcome for his fingers, and his tongue swims in the ecstasy flooding from me. He is strong and firm with me. Moves slowly, restrained purpose. Calculated as he listens to my exhales. My moans. Watches my body squirm as he pushes me further. And closer. His touch should feel new and uncertain, but it isn't. He doesn't fumble. He knows exactly how to stir me, like he has studied me for years before. His fingers move around me and in me in the same way I touch myself. He is in my head. Inside me feeling what I feel. And I am in the moment. Every moment. In that room. My mind never straying. Completely aware that it is him and no one else.

He doesn't ask. Doesn't move me to him. I go willingly. Wantonly. Taking him into my mouth and rolling my tongue up and down. He is hard and I can feel a pulse, a throbbing, rushing through his veins. He moves with acceptance, giving over to me. Unable to control his whisper, the deepness of his voice pushes ever so slightly through the silence of the night. "Yes. That. There." and a moan fades back into the night.

In my ear he whispers, "Touch yourself for me."

I slide my hand slowly down my naked self. Between my legs. Shaking with anticipation. A breath escapes me in the wetness he created. He raises to his knees, hovering over me, touching himself. Watching me touch myself there, where his mouth had been. Aware of our own touches but lost in the vision of each other.

I feel him begin to quake as he slides his arm under me. Scooping me up towards him. First sucking, then biting on my lower lip before he unleashes himself in me. A divine plunge that pushes the breath from my lungs. Unexpected ecstasy explodes in the next beat of my heart and again I am awash around him. He moves with a force. Folds my legs together to one side and takes hold of my ass. Lifting me to him. Pushing deeper inside me and I whisper, "Let it go. Let go." And he shutters. His legs quiver under the delicious release.

Spent and soaked with each other we move apart to catch our breath. Allow the air to move between us, to cool us. Dry our skin. Our sex. Consciousness is quickly snatched from us. Collapsed bodies in blissful slumber.

I knew his soul and his heart. The chuckle behind his grin. But I had never been there with him. Naked and dancing in the first light of the morning. No previous experience with his touch and yet it is a familiar. His passion uninhibited. His touches precise. How did he know exactly where to touch me? When to touch me there and when to push me deeper towards ecstasy?

How did he know how to awaken my desire?

The morning comes fast and furious. The house stirs as we beg the day for just a few hours of divine slumber. The smell of breakfast beckons us. I am on the edge of awake. The scent of the peonies on the bedside table fill my nose. He stirs, "Good morning," is mumbled under a sleepy grin, a face smashed into the pillow, and I giggle. There are no awkward words. Morning is easy on us both and smiles are hard to shake. And on less than 3 hours of sleep, we prepare to face the inevitable. The walk of shame; entering the kitchen of our friends, hours after the rest of the house has risen. Smelling of sex and whiskey. Containing our smiles and avoiding lingering glances.

Do they know? Did they hear the squeaking of the old iron bed?

On the couch, I try to shake the fog from my head. He shuffles his sleepy self towards me. Our eyes say more than we can allow. He stretches himself out beside me. I hold my coffee with both hands, arms up as he wraps his around my waist, pulls himself tight next to me and lays his hazy head in my lap.

They know now.

Betty After Dark is a writer from Northern California.

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