Fisher’s hands stayed on the outside of my clothes, yet touched me intimately.
The graze of his hand over my breast, my butt … the slide of his fingers up my inner thigh.
Open-mouthed kisses.
Soft moans.
More dancing.
We weren’t sneaking around. We weren’t rushed. It was just us, and we had the whole night.
I was exhausted with no desire to sleep.
I was turned on, but not wanting to take it any further yet.
I was perfectly content, but insanely eager.
We were messy and alive and living in the moment. Our love only mattered for a day.
A kiss.
A breath.
Eventually the songs ended, leaving us in silence dotted with the soft sounds of our kisses. Yet we kept swaying like we made our own music, like we had our own rhythm. I couldn’t help but imagine a life with Fisher. A real life where we’d enjoy dinner and talk about current events, work, or plan a trip.
After dinner we’d do the dishes and listen to music like tonight. It would lead to dancing and kissing, a seemingly unhurried passion, but we’d still leave our clothes in a trail down the hallway because we would forever be that couple. We’d make love in a frenzy before falling asleep in each other’s arms, only to wake in the morning and do it all over again, only slower and with the soft glow of the morning sun on us. We’d look into each other’s eyes the whole time, starting everyday perfectly connected.
Or … and I liked this dream the best … we’d eventually have to give up our morning sex because we’d wake to the pitter patter of tiny feet charging toward our bedroom to wake us up. And we’d steal long minutes every morning to tickle little bellies and kiss soft cheeks while a chorus of giggles and squeals filled the room.
And on mornings, if we were lucky, we’d distract them with a thirty-minute show on a television or a tablet while we jumped into the shower … together.
“What’s going through that beautiful head of yours?” Fisher asked before kissing the top of said beautiful head. My cheek had been resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, as we swayed in silence.
“I want this,” I murmured.
“Want what? More dancing?”
Lifting my head, I gazed up at him and smiled. “More … everything.”
Fisher blinked several times as his knuckles brushed my cheeks. He knew. He knew what more and everything meant. “Me too.” He kissed me while walking me backward out of the kitchen. And I begged for it to be like my dream.
It was.
He broke our kiss to remove my shirt. And we sneaked another kiss before we removed his shirt. More kisses.
My bra.
His back against the hallway wall while I kissed his chest and unbuttoned his jeans.
More kisses and more steps ensued as he inched my leggings south, but just barely past my butt. Fisher’s strong hands slid inside the back of my panties, gripping me, pulling me close, rubbing me against him.
The brush of his bare chest along my nipples while his tongue teased mine … it was intoxicating. Everything about us felt all-consuming. We were memories in the making, ignited by a past he couldn’t remember and fueled by a desire for a future that seemed painfully just out of reach.
“You’re so…” he kissed down my body, kneeling in front of me “…fucking beautiful.” His tongue teased my navel as his hands worked my leggings and panties the rest of the way down my legs. “And sexy … god you’re so sexy.” His mouth moved lower.
My hands found their place in his hair, and they curled into fists, forcing him to look up at me. “I had the biggest crush on you.” More heat found its way to my cheeks, taking me back to that eighteen-year-old girl, out of my mind infatuated with him.