My fingers brush the handle of her door

The bright coloured lettering, my usual morning read.

Then I remember she’s at Grandma’s.

My fingers slip away again.

Coffee in peace… Unusual.

The threat of the buzz of the coffee machine

neutralised for just one morning.

Pad of feet, adult in nature

come down the hallway.

I hear you stop in the doorway,

creeping up on me perhaps.

The slip of hands over hips,

breath against my neck.

The murmur of lips against my jaw.

“Come back to bed,”

The refusal is not what you wanted.

Instead of tantrum your hands explore,

slipping beneath cotton.

Apparently, bed is no longer necessary.  

Shiver over spine and heat pooling.

You find what you want, take what we need.

Fingers press and circle, back bowing.

Foot sliding mine across the tiles.

Legs spread, hips pressed hard to counter.

You press me over, kneeling behind me.

Tasting, my hands gripping as I groan.

Fingers added, crooking and teasing,

“Good girl,” Another shiver, legs quiver.

Steeling a moment of madness,

Length pressed to core.

Control gone.

Hearts racing and cries abandoned.

Oaths and truths, vows and promises.

Demands become pleas.

“Deeper, Darling,”

Starbursts and shattered orgasms,

Shaking legs, long silence.

Ragged breathing, back kisses.

Massaging hands.

“I fucking love your mum.”

“You better fucking love me more.”

Laughter.