we’re on the couch.
i can’t reach the remote on the coffee table. he’s asleep on his stomach, his head on my lap, his cheek stuck to my inner thigh, his fingers tucked underneath my legs. they twitch as he dreams. he breathes softly, warm against my skin. his eyelashes are long, supple. they flutter against his cheeks. the movie has stopped playing, the television recycles the animation of the options screen, casting a glow over the otherwise dark room, highlighting his bone structure with dips and shadows. i stroke his black hair lightly, mussing up what is left of the day’s perfect pompadour. he stirs, i stop. he turns over, faces my abdomen, the tip of his nose skirting the skin just above the waistband of my underwear. the small exhales that escape his parted lips tickle my clit. i rest my head on the cushion behind me, let the sensation lull me to sleep in its own libidinous way.
