It's 3am before I finally give in and fall into the unfamiliar, empty bed. The sheets are crisp and cold against my bare skin, a slightly shocking side effect of having the air conditioner turned on full blast for the entire day in hopes of beating back the mid-summer heat. I can imagine you laughing at me for over air-conditioning the place and then squeaking in surprise when the sheets are frozen. The thought of you makes me pout a little and check my phone again, just in case I missed a call in the ten minutes it took me to get ready for bed. I haven't. I pull the piles of blankets up to cover my shoulders and resign myself to sleeping alone.
I'm not any good at sleeping in lonely beds, but I don't know anyone in this city to call to come round for a platonic snuggle. I suppose I will just have to wait, patiently, for your arrival. I'm also not any good at patience or waiting.
After a while of staring at the ceiling, I roll over and stare at the window across the room. It doesn't make me any more sleepy than the ceiling did, so I close my eyes. If I lay very, very still and don't open my eyes, I can almost imagine your footsteps on the carpet, crossing the room. And if I concentrate hard enough (but not so hard that I break my suspension of belief), I can even feel you sliding into bed behind me. Your body is warm against mine, and I resist the urge to press back against you. Your arm drapes across my waist as you get comfortable, but once you've settled your hand reaches out to find mine underneath the covers. Our fingers interlace for a brief moment before you trace back up my arm to my neck, move my hair aside so you can brush the side of my neck with your lips. I shiver and let out a little gasp, proving that I was simply pretending to be asleep.
Why had I been pretending, again? I can't remember, but it seems like it had been important. The kisses across my neck and shoulder aren't exactly conducive to logical thought, though. Neither is the hand that is running gently down my side, fingertips brushing the underside of my breast before continuing down to my hip. I give up on remembering. I have more important things to attend to.
I wriggle around to face you, careful not to dislodge the blankets and let cold air into the cocoon that we're currently laying in. Before I can say anything, you hush me by pressing your lips to mine, kissing me as though you might die if you don't. After a few seconds I've become convinced that I might die if you stop. What started out as soft but urgent has built into nothing short of demanding on both sides. I can barely breathe, but I'd rather have the next kiss than my next breath. When we finally part, gasping for air and staring at each other in an odd sort of wonder, I'm trembling.
It doesn't stop me from reaching down and lifting the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head and throwing it out into the darkness of the middle of the room. You take advantage of the situation and tackle me, rolling me over onto my back and kissing me again. This time the kisses trail off, across my cheeks and down my neck. I'm soon left helpless, unable to kiss you or touch you well as you move downward, out of my reach. The desire to enjoy the feel of your mouth and hands on my breasts (my stomach, my thighs... ) wars with the need to be able to reciprocate. I let you win for a while, grasping at pillows instead as your steady downward trek comes to its destination. I can feel your breath against my sex, your tongue flicking at it lightly, teasingly. Then, with no warning, you deliberately press the tip of your tongue against my clit, circling it slowly.
After a few moments, though, I wiggle away and pull you back up close. I can tell by the look on your face that you're slightly confused, but I can't find the words to explain that contact is more important to me than an orgasm. Besides, there's nothing to say that I can't have both. I fully plan on it, in fact.
I pull your face to mine again and I can taste myself on your mouth. Normally I'm not a big fan of the taste of my own juices, but tonight it seems to just make me want you more. I reach below the covers and push at the waistband of your boxers. I'm at the wrong angle to remove them completely, but I manage to slip them down past your thighs and around your knees. As you readjust, kicking one leg and then the other free, I can feel the tip of your cock brushing my inner thigh. I make a grab for it, but you just laugh and lay down on top of me, trapping it between our bodies.
"Not yet," you whisper before capturing my mouth with yours again. Impatient, I wiggle out from under you and lay on my side. When you press yourself to me again, I reach between us and wrap my hand around your manhood, gently stroking it up and down. You make a happy noise in the back of your throat and admit defeat by rolling back and granting me more access.
"I won't rush it," I promise. "It's been far too long."
"It's only been a week," you reply, smiling as your fingertips trace my face before trailing down my chest and stomach to find their way between my legs.
"And that is much, much too long," I say. Anything else I might have wanted to say is quickly erased from my memory by your fingers slipping inside my pussy, crooking and finding the spot that feels so good. You reach up with your thumb to find the little nub and make me gasp and tighten my grip on your cock. You gasp in return and press your fingers further into me. The cause and effect carries us forward until I know that my orgasm is imminent.