I still laugh sometimes. Like right now. When the supposed object of that prompt is lying in my bed, looking at some comedy sketch show on TV, waiting for me to come fill the other half of it.
I shake my head and smile, as my gaze sweeps over his face. He turns toward me, doing the same thing. His cinnamon irises dance over my body, and I shiver. All the way down to my toes.
He winks at me, and I blush, giggling, trying to suppress the memory of us meeting face-to-face for the first time.
“Come to bed, babe. You can write more in the morning.” His left arm is outstretched toward me, and I take in every inch of him that I can see.
The deep, ridges of nothing but abs.
Thick, black eyelashes and eyebrows over rich, mocha brown skin.
His full lips that make me go weak.
His soft, expressive eyes that make me grow weaker. His large hands…
I crawl into bed him, shaking my head again.
“What’s so….?” The deep timbre of his voice heats my right earlobe, as he drapes his arm around my stomach.
“That prompt was sooo…. wrong.”
“You weren’t… you aren’t the greatest source of pain and pleasure. Not by far.”
He chuckles, and somewhere in the distance, I hear the soft ticking of a clock’s second hand.
“Then what am I, beautiful?”
He already knows my answer, but I turn in his arms, framing his face with my small hands anyway.
“You’re the greatest joy I’ve ever known.”
© Angel Mystique 2017