“So are we ever going to fuck again?”
“I love you, please don’t touch me.”
“Your butt is cold. Rub it on me!”
“Ahhhhh! Your feet touched me!”
“I could go for some kinky fuckery. But not right now.”
I’m not going to tell you who said what because truly, they’re interchangeable. Once the lights go out, our bed is a place to reconnect on multiple levels. One moment we’re giggling and being silly, the next we’re discussing the state of our marriage, our kink, and our lives.
The fucking, though, that’s been a thing. We’re dreaming big in our professional lives, and we spend all our waking hours working on those dreams. It’s great until you realize the only thing you want to do at night is take off all your clothes and go the hell to sleep.
Morning sex was our go-to until we started waking up so early neither of us had energy or sleeping so late that fucking while the dog (and kids) whimpered at the door felt too awkward.
But talking in bed always makes me feel closer to John Brownstone. Even when it’s all we do, and none of it’s sexy. Those conversations connect us again. No matter how tired we are, when the moment is just right, we lay together, chatting. My head sits in the crook of his arm. He looks down at me. Sometimes he smoothes a hair away, and sometimes he trails a fingertip down my arm and over my breast. None of it’s sexual. Not at that moment.
In truth, last night, I felt so guilty about our lack of tab A and slot B that I promised, if he grabbed the lube, I’d assume the position. Just please be quick about it. It wasn’t about what I needed, only that I thought he needed it, and I hated that he wasn’t getting it.
“Babygirl, I love you, and I love fucking you, but not tonight.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, admitted my guilty feelings, and then we talked until we couldn’t keep our eyes open.
This morning, though, that was different. I heard the pop of the lube cap before I felt him move. His cock bumped my hip before it found my cunt, lube leaving a trail on my skin. I scooted back, bum against his pelvis, hoping my back arched just right. I didn’t open my eyes, but I still sighed with pleasure as he sank in. For all that I was exhausted, this was no sleepy fuck. His movements were too fast and steady for that.
Maybe I fell back asleep or maybe it really had been that long, but I heard his tells sooner than I expected. His breathing shortened, so did his thrusts. He dug his fingers into whatever part of me he could grab, and the short, fast in-and-out motion turned into a single deep dive. As if he could bury himself deeper and stay there forever.
As quickly as the intensity appeared, it was over. I felt his cock pulse and then soften before I stumbled out of bed and to the bathroom. Once back, we mumbled a garbled, “I love you” before drifting back to sleep.
Sleep broken by sex is still broken sleep. I couldn’t quite get up with the alarm, and even after putting clothes on, fell back asleep. Long after the sun came up, there he was, hovering over me, stroking my hair and whispering, “Are you ever getting up, Babygirl? Or will you sleep the day away?”
I could have mumbled something about being woken up for sex, that it wasn’t my fault, but that moment felt too special. Yes, it was like a dozen other early-morning fucks. But it also wasn’t. It came after a night with a deeper connection than either of us had felt recently. That fuck was a special fuck.
I think our bed might be magic.
Welcome to Masturbation Monday, and you’re never going to believe this, but this is week 200!!! I don’t know how old that is in dog years, but in the blogging world, it’s not young! If it’s been a while since you’ve been to the main Masturbation Monday page, go take a look. We’ve got a podcast, sexy prompts from other bloggers, and a weekly roundup of top posts shared by the writers. And if nothing else, I have no doubt my writer friends will bring even more heat this week for such a special occasion.
(The feature image is not our bed)