Morning Sex

Saturday mornings sting the senses. Sunlight streams across our bedroom, and every cell feels awake, impatient. We leave the sheets rumpled, driven by this need to touch, to taste, everywhere. Halle presses me back against the dining table and kneels. Her tongue finds the tender swell between my thighs, warm and deliberate, sweeping slowly until each pass pulls my breath out of rhythm. I come hard—once against the wood grain, again over the living-room rug, again bent at the kitchen counter. Then it’s my mouth at her opening, tasting salt and the faint trace of the lotion we rubbed on the night before. We move through the rooms like we’re running a relay with our pleasure, switching who leads, who follows, who gasps first. The little silver clock above the mantel shows an hour gone. Neither of us minds. Later, we’ll scroll the footage on the couch, ankles tangled, picking out the exact frame where she cried out my name. That quiet, greedy little sound will play like background music for years.