8.3
June 6, 2015

A Sunday Kind of Love. {Adult}

http://www.flickr.com/photos/malomalverde/8700189053/sizes/m/

I want a Sunday kind of love—one that is as comforting and warm as my favorite soft robe tied tight around my breasts on a foggy morning.

The kind of morning that licks at my consciousness and makes me still feel as if I’m dreaming—that hazy blur where reality and my burning desire collides.

A love that wakes up with the sun, lips against my shoulder smelling of last night’s whiskey kisses, strong hands pulling me close, nestled into the soft voluptuousness of my breasts and grabbing hold of your dreams, the fit of an arm around my waist.

Our Saturday clothes full of adventure and sunlight will be left carelessly crumpled on the floor of my room, little bits of leaves and dirt scattered about—now nothing more than just artifacts of our late night walk in the rain, but still smelling like rusty promises and a desire so hot it will singe your fingertips as they slowly undress me.

I want a Sunday kind of love.

Although you’ve been undressing me for a while now—first my skepticism and sarcasm fell from my shoulders like heavy stones to the bottom of a cold rushing river; I stepped out of my insecurities and fears while you held my hand and that now seem to have been misplaced somewhere along the way.

My masks of who and what I should be that I wore for far too long now collect dust and seem like nothing but sad old memories that I have no need to cling to any longer.

Just when I will believe I couldn’t bare any more of myself to you, you’ll take your hands and draw the soft blue cotton of my dress up around my hips, my waist, exposing my breasts, over my head tossing it recklessly aside ––and suddenly, there will be nothing left to hide behind.

And so we will fall into the light of a thousand stars, the dreams from the nightmares that woke us for far too long, the sleepless nights and the breath choking in the back of our throats, the words that burn to be said—all of it will disappear into that one moment that will be caught in between our lips as they meet.

And the night will last until the sun wakes us with her light through heavy tender kisses, scratches along ripened exposed skin deep with a passion and a fervent rocking desire that will leave us both breathless.

It will be a night of sweet strawberry whiskey, the haze of smoke circling around our heads and opening up our eyes. It will be fiery grilled peaches sweetened with rose honey and melted vanilla ice cream, it will be a million moments that all will come down to one.

The moment where a Saturday Night turns into a Sunday Morning.

I want a Sunday kind of love.

Last night’s laughter will still echo in the back of our throats, but we will have lost our voices to the softness of a Sunday morning. Barely speaking above a whisper I will trace all of my secrets onto your skin with my lips, waking you from your sleep as I press my bottom against you, not needing words, because you will already know what I want.

My mouth will seek out your neck, my fingertips tracing the steps of a thousand journeys that have finally brought you to me, and I’ll take you in my mouth, saying good morning to you in the only way that I know how.

My bedroom hair will be messy and tangled, nothing but a fallen halo of dirty nonsense falling over and around you as I move, daring you to ever leave this bed.

Soft heirloom quilts holding the dreams of tomorrows in shades of blues and greens like my eyes, but not nearly as deep––or as passionate—especially when you’re the one I’m looking at.

Mottled light through the shades creating warm shadows across our skin, leaving the softness of bed wearing nothing as I toss a smile over my shoulder and I leave you lying in bed wondering how you ever got here, and yet at the same time, how could you possibly ever leave.

I’ll bring you a heavy mug of steaming coffee smelling like the exotic hills of Peru and tasting almost as sweet as me, and though we will have every intention of drinking it, the mugs will sit growing cold, as at first we will laugh until I begin moving against you once again, and you unable and unwilling to resist will come to play with me once more.

I want a Sunday kind of love.

Eventually we will rise, and I’ll put on your worn t-shirt I picked up from the floor—just because I can—and, barefoot with music playing, I’ll make us pancakes. Swaying my hips as I mix and fry them over a hot griddle, the oil spitting and biting at my bare skin, just like I’ve done a thousand mornings before—except this time I’ll be making them for you.

We’ll sit in the dappled sunlight and have breakfast, the air smelling like bacon and fresh coffee, and I’ll watch your eyes as you see the maple syrup trickle down my chin and land on the rise of my breasts begging to be licked off by your hungry mouth.

I’ll ask you to leave the dishes where they are as I say I’ll be in the shower if you want to join me—although there was never a question as to if you would.

Because this is a Sunday kind of love; one that begs to stay undressed and tasted slowly, one that lingers on our lips long after it’s passed.

I want a Sunday kind of love.

Relephant bonus!

 

 

Relephant Reads:

6 Ways to Have Radically Intimate Sex.

~

Author: Kate Rose

Editor: Travis May

Images: Flickr/Antonio MaloMalverde

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