Mornings With Him

I like the quiet stillness of my mornings with him.

I like the weekends, when we’ll awaken still sweaty from the night before, shower together, relax into two days of idle bliss. I like the way I feel his arms encircle me from behind as I cook breakfast for the both of us in our kitchen (our kitchen; still such a novelty even after six months of marriage). I like the knowledge that our time is ours, and that there is nothing we can’t do with it. A visit to a new gallery exhibit? Sure. A glass of wine on the patio? Of course. An afternoon in bed, of sensuous lovemaking and rough fucking (delete according to preference)? Whyever not?

All of the above? Well, if you’re twisting my arm…

And yet there’s so much more to it than that.

Even in the dim light of a Wednesday, our Saturday ritual so far away, I love my mornings with him. I love rolling over in bed and seeing him still asleep, undisturbed by the harsh beep of my alarm clock an hour before he is due to rise. I love the look of peacefulness on his face, so different from the passionate contortions of the night before.

Fuck me, fuck, me, fuck me…

Hard even to remember whose lips the words came from. Perhaps they came from everywhere at once, circling around us as we pressed our naked bodies against each other again and again and…

The thought makes me smile even as I pull myself towards the bathroom.

I shower, rubbing the sweat and grime of the night before off my body, ready to be presentable to the outside world. It almost feels sacrilegious to washing the scent of him off me – as though our night spent with our bodies pressed against each other is something to be so easily discarded on passing into the world of Corporate Responsibility™ – but needs must. Until the evening comes, I have to pretend to care about anything, anything at all other than him and the feeling of his arms around me. I slip into my suit, fastening my tie tight around my neck, and frown as I watch him sleep. It would be so easy to call in sick, to feign some kind of emergency, to spend the day wrapped up in his arms – and why not the day after? Why not the day after that, to lead us into Saturday and the weekend? Why not forever?

Because that’s not how it works, I chide myself. Because everything you’ve built with him, this little life of yours, requires sacrifice.

And there’s no sacrifice greater than knowing that I could choose to strip down and to curl back up next to him, safe in the warmth of our duvet and his company.

Do it quickly, I think. Do it quickly, or you won’t do it at all.

I don’t even lean down to kiss him before I go, but it doesn’t matter; as I make my move to the bedroom door, he stirs himself out of whatever dream he was having. ‘Hey,’ he says, propping himself unsteadily up on an elbow. ‘What time is it?’

‘Go back to sleep. You’ve still got half an hour.’

He smiles. ‘Love you.’

And that’s all it takes for my resolve to crumble. The pressures of work that were just starting to creep in around the edges of my morning routine are banished in an instant. If I miss the train, I’ll catch the next; if I wrinkle my suit, I’m sure no one will even notice, let alone care – but for now, I need him. I need him, and nothing else can possibly matter.

‘What are you doing?’

I grin up at him as I fall to my knees at the side of the bed. ‘Just trust me, OK?’

He nods, and I throw back the sheets just far enough to reveal his prick; a second or two later, his morning half-hardness is heavy against my tongue. I can taste the sweat and the sweetness, feel his fingers in my hair as he gently strokes behind my ear. There is a time for roughness, a time to be controlling – And oh, what a time it is… – but it’s not now. Either out of instinct or tiredness he knows to let me take control of the situation, to be the one tending to him; he might be groggy, but his trust in my ability to give him what he needs is absolute.

His cock is full now, long and thick enough that it would make me gag if I swallowed it the way I wanted, but as much as I want to take it deep into my throat I think it might blow his sleep-addled mind. Instead I suck gently at it, running my tongue across the tip to savour the precome that is already forming as a result of my ministrations. He lets out a soft, exhausted moan and tightens his grip on the bedsheets. There is no fuck me, fuck me, fuck me now, not here; the same voice that gasped it out in my ear a few brief hours ago is now distant and floaty with pleasure. It’s the voice of a man given over to the comfort and care of someone else, someone trusted and adored.

I feel his body tense up, his hips rising as though to greet me, and I know he’s close; I can sense the orgasm building in every ragged gasp, in the tightening of his fingers in my hair, in the way he begins to shiver.

And then, there it is. What I needed from him.

I make sure to swallow every last drop; as the spell is broken and my desire to please him is replaced by the more mundane realisation that I’ll be late for work, I know that it will raise more questions than I’m comfortable with if I managed to spill on my suit without noticing. I suck until I feel him growing soft in my mouth, and I know I’ve taken everything he has to give.

‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, already halfway back to his dream – a dream, I hope, that stars me.

This time, I make a special point of kissing him before I leave for work. This time, I make sure he tastes himself on my lips – a little something to remember me by when I’m gone, especially if the blowjob he received begins to feel a little like just some early-morning imagining.

And then I’m gone.

I have a smile on my face as I head down the stairs and out of the door. I know I shouldn’t have done it, really. I know all I’ve done is set myself up for a day of dreadful teasing, and it’s all my fault; the hardness I can feel growing beneath my suit isn’t going to go away any time soon, and there’s nothing I’ll be able to do about it at the office. The thought of him will sit there, roiling away inside my mind until I’ve worked myself up into a frenzy of expectation.

But that’s OK.

Tonight, he’ll be waiting for me, in our home, in our bedroom, between our sheets.

He will be waiting, and he will be mine.

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