This morning as I was lying in bed, waiting for the sun to come out, I was thinking about touch. How I miss it.
I miss the feel of a warm body next to mine. That moment, in the early morning, when you wake and wonder if you should wake your lover too and just how much you can touch him before he stirs.
Fingertips tracing a line of neck…
Lips gently brushing a shoulder…
Hands roaming between the skin-warmed sheets and his warm skin…
I miss sitting with my lover in the cramped space of my chair-and-a-half, more than a chair but not quite a love seat. It forces intimacy: sitting hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Accidental touching, intentional stroking, kissing as the ottoman shifts away from the chair causing us to slowly sink to the floor.
Once on the floor, we give up the pretense of watching our movie or interest in the discussion we were having and begin talking with our hands.
Hands that touch, tease, torment and tear at clothing…
Hands that caress in ways words never can…
Lips that speak eloquently of desire and the promise of pleasure, without uttering a word…
Oh, yes… I miss touching and being touched.
Licks!
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