i don't know if i can get up today

I lean forward and kiss his bicep, and his lips part infinitesimally. I dry his other arm in a similar fashion, trailing kisses around his bicep, and a small smile plays on his lips. Carefully, I wipe his back beneath the faint lipstick line, which is still visible. I hadn’t gotten round to washing his back.“Whole back,” he says quietly, “with the towel.” He takes a sharp breath and screws his eyes closed as I briskly dry him, careful to touch him only with the towel.He has such an attractive back—broad, sculptured shoulders, all the small muscles clearly defined. He really looks after himself. The beautiful sight is marred only by his scars.

With difficulty, I ignore them and suppress my overwhelming urge to kiss each and every one. When I finish he exhales, and I lean forward and reward him with a kiss on his shoulder. Putting my arms around him, I dry his stomach. Our eyes meet once more in the mirror, his expression amused but wary, too.

I reach for his hand, which he willingly entrusts to me, and guide it up to his chest to dry it, sweeping the towel slowly, awkwardly across his body. Once, twice—then again. He’s completely immobilized, rigid with tension, except for his eyes, which follow my hand clasped around his.

My subconscious looks on with approval , her normally pursed mouth smiling, and I am the supreme puppet master. His anxiety ripples off his back in waves, but he maintains eye contact, though his eyes are darker, more deadly. Showing their secrets maybe.Is this a place I want to go? Do I want to confront his demons?“I think you’re dry now,” I whisper as I drop my hand, gazing into the gray depths of his eyes in the mirror. His breathing is accelerated, lips parted.

“I need you” ,he whispers.“I need you, too.” And as I say the words, I am struck how true they are. I cannot imagine being without him, ever.“Let me love you,” he says hoarsely.“Yes,” I answer, and turning, he hauls me into his arms, his lips seeking mine, beseeching me, worshipping me, cherishing me . . . loving me.He trails his fingers up and down my spine as we gaze at each other, basking in our postcoital bliss, replete. We lie together, me on my front hugging my pillow, he on his side, and I am treasuring his tender touch. I know that right now he needs to touch me. I am a balm for him, a source of solace, and how could I deny him that? I feel exactly the same about him.“So you can be gentle,” I murmur.“Hmm . . so it would seem''.

I grin. “You weren’t particularly the first time we . . . um, did this.”“No?” He smirks. “When, I robbed you of your virtue.”“I don’t think you robbed me,” I mutter haughtily—Jeez, I’m not a helpless maiden. “I think my virtue was offered up pretty freely and willingly. I wanted you, too, and if I remember correctly, I rather enjoyed myself.” I smile shyly at him, biting my lip.

As we dress, I notice that we move with the synchronization of  two people who know each other well, each watchful and acutely aware of the other, exchanging the occasional shy smile and sweet touch. And it dawns on me that this is just as new for him as it is for me.