I woke slow this morning, the kind of slow that only happens when every bit of you still carries the night before. He was still there, breathing deep and steady beside me, one arm thrown across the pillow like he belonged in my little Hackney flat. The sheets were a proper tangle, half kicked off, and the early light was sneaking through the gap in the curtains just enough to catch the curve of his shoulder. Tall. Dark hair messy from my fingers. Handsome in that quiet way that makes my stomach flip even now.
My body felt deliciously used. Not sore in a bad way, just that warm, heavy ache that settles deep after someone has taken their time with you and then some. Last night had started with dancing and silly drinks in the club, the usual banter, then somehow we were back here and the kissing went on forever. Proper kissing. The sort that starts soft and turns hungry without either of you deciding it. He had this way of holding my face like he was learning me, and I remember melting into it, the room spinning a little from the wine and the heat of him.
Then things got properly high energy. He wasn’t gentle once we got going, and I didn’t want him to be. There is something about being lifted and moved and pressed into the mattress that makes me feel small and wanted all at once. My thighs still carry the memory of his weight, that lovely pull in my hips from how he held me open, the way he took his time with his mouth until I was shaking and laughing into the pillow because it felt almost too good. I came hard, the kind that leaves you floaty and soft afterwards, and he stayed close, kissing the damp skin of my neck while I caught my breath. We did it again later, slower the second time, all tangled limbs and whispered nonsense, and I fell asleep with his hand resting low on my stomach like a quiet promise.
This morning I slipped out carefully so I wouldn’t wake him. Made coffee in the little kitchen, bare feet on the cool floor, the smell of it rising while I stood there in just his shirt. Every step reminded me of last night. The pleasant throb between my legs, the faint marks on my hips that will fade by Monday, the way my lips still felt a bit swollen from all that kissing. I leaned against the counter and just let myself feel it. The afterglow is my favourite part sometimes. That soft, glowing space where your body remembers everything and your mind drifts into the idealistic stuff I usually keep quiet about.
I keep thinking how nice it would be if this was the start of something. Not just a random from the club who happens to be good with his hands and even better with his mouth. Someone who stays for coffee and foot rubs and Sunday mornings. Someone tall and dark and steady enough to match the wild side I hide under the sweet face at work. He stirred a little while I was pouring, murmured something half-asleep, and I smiled into my mug. Maybe he will stay for breakfast. Maybe he won’t. Either way, my body is still humming with the memory of being thoroughly, properly taken care of, and that is more than enough for a Thursday morning in March.
I might text the girls later. Or I might keep this one to myself for a while, just me and the quiet coffee and the lovely ache that says last night really happened.
