by Angela Vitale
(05/13/09)

I am sitting in bed with morning light pouring through like honeysuckle. Her gaze is on the tiny teaspoon dip between the base of my neck and shoulder, and I know she is watching the contours of my skin move. The muscles on her left arm tighten as she lifts herself onto her elbow and sips the French press coffee I made. I too have my cup, a cup of green tea. We haven't had many mornings to lounge in bed. The air is crisp with the last glance of winter, but the winds are coming in gusty and warm, stirring from the south.

I place my tea on the bedside table. I am leaning back against the pillows, propped against my dark Florentine bed frame. She is still a stranger here. Not home yet, but moving in silently with her heart. Taking me in, all my curves, right through her too big button-down shirt that I threw on when I slipped out to the kitchen, my nipples still hard; she, taking in my arms, my ears, that drape of my breast beyond the open button.

I don't tell her how much her possessive look makes the fine hairs on my skin shiver and tickle. How her lingering focus makes my underarms swell and flush. How her gaze alone is enough to send the surface of my skin through a body wave. I hide the way it arches through the inside of me, between my legs, right up through the wet channel of me, a passé leap inside this, my dancer's body.

She is tough, contained...open, but condensed. Concentrated, like a concoction, like a crème brulee reduction, her cells hard up against the inside of her skin, pressing a density, a potency...sturdy, confident, only on her in-breath showing me the tiniest shimmer of her trust, still so fresh and uncertain. She wouldn't want me even to see that. She doesn't know that I notice.

She doesn't want to tell me that she is falling in love with me, those words like new skin -- too vulnerable -- once born, a confession you can never come back from.

I don't want her to say it either.

I roll over and hold her fist down while I brush my temple across her cheek, my hair falling like silk, like a paintbrush, my lips brushing that place just under her cheekbone and along the thick muscled cut of her neck, the arc of tender skin between my forefinger and thumb pushing ever so slightly on her wrist, pinning her, her palm lifting to push back. It's an illusion, my strength trumping her. I roll my shoulders, stomach and hips across her body like a cat. I pretend I am in control.

With a sweep of her strong arm, she catches me around my back and flips me, presses her knee down and eases my legs apart, pushing my left knee to the side, holding it there so she can lower her weight down between my legs. The cover falls from her shoulders.

With my free hand, I unbutton her shirt from my body. She catches one of my nipples in her mouth and turns it gently across her tongue, through her lips. Sensation shatters me and rockets out the curl of my neck. I arch up. My hair falls like a curtain around us, just below my shoulders, framing her face.

She presses me back down, pushes her hips across me and slides. My hand cups the back of her head as she leans her face to my thigh and eases my legs further apart, her arms wrapped underneath and around them. She takes my hips in her hands and tips them like a saddle. They feel small, a mere shelf... Honeysuckle dreams float through the window on the wind, welling up into that slippery moment that glistens on my labia.

Her lips are marking parentheses on the smooth skin at the juncture of my inner thighs, marking but concealing things she cannot say. When her tongue reaches me, my voice rolls low and long, pleasure and sound both rising from the same place, but stretching the sensation in opposite directions, my spine itself arched and opening like an electric channel.

Her tongue rolls under the pearl of my clit until my clit grows and becomes a very round slick pink button. I can't handle the pressure now: She knows me and knows how to read me, cutting around the side, opening long notes up the insides of my lips, drawing her tongue diagonally under and around the reign drop.

But I don't come best, or deepest, from my clitoris. What I am craving, and she knows I am craving, is her inside me, my Technicolor mouth opening, rolling and shifting with hunger, wishing it could swallow to draw her closer, to take the whole of her fully and completely inside.

In answer, she shifts me, lifts my hips and pushes the pillow beneath them. Endorphins flush through me in waves. Her lips lower again and I feel the tremor of her voice, a low rumble that starts and stops, inflections of upright letters that climb from her throat through the wet gate to the center of me.

She is whispering.

"What?" I thread my fingers through her short hair and pull gently, a question. Her eyes rise. She lifts her head.

"Things I can't tell you," she says. She's vibrating me, whispering secrets to my vagina...

I don't know what to make of this. I am high, dizzy with need, but I cover, and catch myself. I am not sure I want her to know that I feel this altered, this spaced. I have to condense it all, into something funny.

"Oh brother," I chide, pushing her shoulder. I love calling her boi, brother, he...I see her light up, her chest a bit stronger, her stride a might longer, more mischief in her eyes. Her masculinity reminds me of the John Deere tractor she rides and the smell of cut grass. I get wetter.

The honeycomb of my G-spot is so swollen now that it hurts to hold the honey back. I want to release it but need that quick stroke of friction, that wide, full push of pressure. I want to come so badly that I reach down to touch myself, but she pushes my hand away and resumes her confession. I try to turn beneath her, but she won't have it. She holds me back, pins me down, raises herself up, towering squarely over me.

"A secret's a secret," she declares. "Do you have a problem with that? Need me to go get those words?" she challenges, roughhousing, "because I will...dig them back out of you...my confessions. Chase them down. Take them back." She looks up at me, defiant, and I swoon.

"You need my fingers in you," she teases. "You can't wait any longer, can you?"

"Your secrets are driving me crazy," I confess. "I need your hands. I need you full-on inside me..."

Aware of how vulnerable my need leaves me, I flip myself into the dominant position and expose myself to her. I am standing on the mattress, facing the wall, bent at the hips, pushing my chest over the thick molding of my headboard, looking back at her. My legs make a triangle, her body the hypotenuse.

I open my legs wider, lift my hand to my mouth, wet my fingers and spread my labia, moving my hips in a slow circle. My lips are wet and slick, with my juice and our saliva, smooth and a touch salty, swelling more, swollen. I am showing her my readiness, tempting her, like money tempts a thief, readying her with a glistening invitation to my cashbox, a pocket of pleasure to be pummeled and ravished, broken into and stolen from.

She clasps her hands on my hips and, in a single, precise move, draws me back, and tilts me. Control. She has to have control, have me entirely her way. The claim of that is what makes me truly melt, as she cups her palm and presses the wet tips of three fingers to a point and pushes the triangular tip of them into my cunt. I look back at her. Flash her the dare.

Greed. Anger. Possession. Defiance. All the primal bells start to ring, and she jolts my hip closer and presses my triangulated legs sideways and open with the hard push of her body. It's the angle, she wants, the one where her arm is like a piston and I am the cylinder of oil, the drum, wet and open, firm and warm around her... the swell of resistance, the pull of my hunger, the push of valor, vindication. Her hand is wet all the way past the knuckles, her eyes rigging me, her motion driving me...

...until I can't hold back the rush, the crush of pleasure inside that pours from my walls over her hand. She pauses for but a moment, and then her hand keeps moving, not entirely all the way inside me, just enough to fill up the wet warm liquid channel of me. She knows my body, flooding it with quivers of release that roll through my pelvis and radiate out warmth, relief, pleasure, concentrically all the way to my fingertips and toes.

She reaches inside my bedside table and pulls out the lubricant (only because she knows the way I have come has washed away too much of my own), and she wants to keep fucking me. She sets a towel beneath me, protecting my bed. At this point, she knows, everything makes me climax, as if that last one were only a priming; a thrust, a stroke, pressure, her voice, her taut body. Her hunger for my release. Her need to release me.

I come seven or eight more times from inside, before she flips me down again, moves the towel aside, and slowly spoons her body into the backside of me. I am loose, like a tumble of rubber bands, and she reaches around without resistance and rests her fingers just under my clit. Slowly, very slowly, she moves her wet fingertips in circles until I come, and clench, and arch the last giant cat-like parts of me, all the way down through the frosted roofs of morning, pulling the sheets in my hand, knotting them in my fists, rolling through a release that turns my world inside out.

As my breath returns, she slips her fingertips, smooth as home, back inside me a tiny ways, cups the base of her palm around my pubic bone and squeezes lightly, putting pressure just the way she knows I like it, holding me tight. I reach around and slip my hand between her legs, rest it there in her heat. I don't want to startle her, or close her down, just feel her pulsing. I catch her, she is breathing-in my skin, rolling through my contractions with me, taking the periodic pulse from between my legs into her hand, memories without past or future, only that moment, fresh and new now.

The sun washes across the bed and we sleep for a moment or two in the honeyed light of satisfaction, her arm across my waist, her knee tucked under the backside of my legs. Safe. We are both safe. Her secrets, sound: undiscovered, unspoken.

My ear is to the pillow. I lie listening...sleeping...waking...and finally kicking...blankets from the tangle of my legs.

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