Afterward

Afterward.

Hip against hip, two curves in parallel. Belly to back. My leg crooked over his, capturing his thighs. My arms around him, his chest hairs tickling my wrists. I can feel the nub of his nipple against the heel of my hand. When I rub it slightly, the ridges on my skin make the Decorator shiver. Even that sensation is too much, at this moment.

My lips are at his neck, my nose in his short, fair hair. When I breathe, pillows of air linger, trapped between us. They stay warm for a moment before they dissipate. My breath still smells of his mouth, and of all the equatorial places my tongue has traveled across his body. The bristles lining my upper lip have trapped his scents. All I have to do is wrinkle my nose to smell all of him.

He wants to be held tightly, afterward. “Don’t let go,” he whispers. The room has been dark all evening, lit only from outside by white fairy lights strung in his back garden. From the bed I can see three of the tiny bulbs on the top branches poking above the window sill. We lie there in the dark, in the quiet, saying nothing. Glued together by sweat and grease and by the connection of moments before.

I’m still inside him, spent but still hard. He wants me there.

As we lie there, connected and pressed tight, I feel his shoulders loosen. They slump into the mattress in small jerks. I hear the faint moist sound of his lips parting. He breathes heavily, then stiffens. A rumble sounds in his chest, half-amused, half-apologetic. I hold him more tightly, and feel him respond by pushing back against me.

It’s okay to let go, I mean the embrace to say.

Again his muscles relax, one by one. His head slumps into the pillow. His mouth opens, and his breathing sounds become deep and rasping. They tickle at the back of his nose as they pass, until at last he’s snoring. The sound makes me smile.

The room is cool, but there’s heat blossoming between our bodies where our skin touches. It's what the dead must envy most about the living, that heat. It seeps into my chest and stomach. My cock is kept stiff by it. His hands press at mine in his sleep, clutching and releasing to echo the movements of whatever dream is passing through his mind.

The weight of his body presses against my bicep. I feel my arm growing heavy. Prickles, then buzzes, dance along its nerves. I flex a few fingers to see how much feeling is left.

Will he wake if I pull my numb limb from under him?

He does not.