The thing he thinks about most, after, about being with her — it isn’t the way her body felt under his hands, the way her hips fit just so against his, how she’d straddled his lap and felt like a limb he’d forgotten he ever had. It isn’t the way she smelled (like soft mint, from her shampoo) or the curve of her cheekbones over the pillow beside him or the way she’d press up against him and run her hands just under the hem of his shirt, palms flat against his stomach, and scratch at him, pet him while they kissed.

It isn’t even the kissing he thinks about, not quite, not really.

It’s the long moment before, when she’d hang in front of his face and there’d be tension like a rubber band between them, elastic and hot-flushed, and they’d not quite kiss, not yet. His mouth would be open and so would hers and their lips would brush a little together, warm and breath-rent. He’d be letting the weight of his body fall a little forwards but her hands would hold his face, one thumb hooked under his jaw and the hint of pressure in her fingers, like by some alchemy she was reversing the drag of the force between them.

He liked that moment, held mid-fall towards her lips, because her hands holding him steady in the pull let him feel them all, all the kisses she’d taken from him and the ones he’d taken back: the soft kisses, the tasting ones, the ones when she’d crowd him against the counter or straddle him in his car; the kisses so jaw-deep that all his mouth entire belonged to her and she’d set his spine alight with just a curl of her tongue; the ones when they were stretched out alongside each other, her mouth on his cock and his face buried between her legs, skin pressed long and so close he could feel the little quivers of her breathing all down his body, his throat and chest and stomach.

They were all there in the long moment, infinite, and hanging there between her hands – that’s what he thinks about most.


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