The words over at Three Word Wednesday are feel, shade and tangle.
I’m back, kids. A bit rusty, but back.
Tangles of mouse-colored hair lay across her sleeping face and amid the mess, two hands work kinky strands into a tiny braid.
Sunlight seeps through the shades, threatening to put a quick and inevitable end to their encounter.
The kids will be up soon, anyway.
There’s a pull on the braid and she stirs, smiles. She stretches, cat-like, and the sheets fall from her breasts and her skin rises instantly in gooseflesh.
Eyes watch the transformation from sleep to consciousness; lips are wetted with a sweep of the tongue – and desire.
She slumps against the warm body coiled next to her and with a long exhale, sighs.
She tucks her head into the warmth, removes a few stray strands of hair from her mouth, wrinkles her nose, aimlessly scratches her temple.
The gestures bring a smile.
She looks up, runs a hand through her curls.
And in her eyes, a gathering storm.
“We can’t do this anymore,” she says. “It’s…it doesn’t feel right.”
Delicate hands reach out for her face, but she turns, buries her head in the sheets.
“Baby, it’s right. So incredibly right. And you feel so good.”
She buries herself further into the bedding, shakes her head.
There’s a thump of heels on the cool hardwood floor. Loose clothing is picked up, tossed. Until she finds her own bra, sundress and sandals.
She slips into the bra, shimmies the dress over her hips and goes to raise the blinds.
And turns back toward the bed.
“The kids will be up soon,” she says to a quivering heap in the bed. “And I brought popsicles for treats.”
She walks past the bed, rakes her nails over her reluctant lover’s exposed foot, the toenails painted in a muted fuchsia. The tight ball of flesh releases a small squeak, then a giggle.
There’s a swipe of a manicured finger across the screen of a smartphone. Lipstick-smeared lips pucker in concentration.
“What do you think, does Friday afternoon work for you?”