Love At Sunrise

Love in the time of the Snowstorm

I'm drunk.

Except there's no drop of alcohol in my blood, so how could I be? But I'm drunk. Maybe I'm drunk on my own imagination, or maybe on my own perception, but what I can't shake off is that tingle. It snakes up from my fingertips to my arms and down to my spine when I glimpse that beautiful shadow by the edge of the window. I'm propped against the wall, standing on the edge of our bed, gazing in the darkness of the room to the shape staring in the distance by the window. The bed is empty and the sheets are ruffled, courtesy of our previous encounter. 

And yet, that enjoyment is not the climax of it. You will laugh at me, but it's not. That climax is when I get out of my bed and I slowly approach her, careful not to disturb her innermost thoughts. Her tousled blonde hair shines in the light of the lamppost from the street. The locks fall down to her shoulders, but one of them is bared, inviting me closer. And I come closer, slowly, one measly step at a time, frightful to disturb that sensation creeping inside my heart. 

She suddenly smiles, slowly turning her head towards me. Her smile is an invitation, an invitation I'm more than happy to accept.

Like a teenager with his first girlfriend, I outstretch my hand, my fingers touching the silk-like skin of her shoulder. For a moment she twitches slightly, unaccustomed to the feeling. My trembling fingers run slowly down her shoulder, one, then two, then three, inching down her back until I reach the side of her right breast. My three fingers turn into a full hand, palmed on her smooth skin over her stomach. 

I tower over her as I come behind her, partly because she's sitting down. And partly because she's waiting for me.

With one finger I inch her slightly forwards, with one move I bend my knees slightly until my lips touch her shoulder. Her skin tastes like honey, and the smell of coconut cream and jasmine from her artisanal parfume engulfs my nostrils. From her shoulder I kiss her gently on the nape of her neck, drawing a soft moan and a blissful smile. Slowly, I'm brushing my lips down from the neck back to her exposed shoulder and even downwards on her spine, until I'm bent unnaturaly just to make her feel it. 

She loves it, I could see that, for she outstretched her own hand to grab my right leg. With every right brush of the lips her fingers would twitch on my leg and her nails would dig in to crush the skin and leave her own mark. It was her way of marking her property. And I had nothing against it. 

Using both hands, I take her by the outer side of her thighs and lift her gently. She complains, giving me a disapproving moan, but that was the end of it. With her in my arms I sit down on the chair and place her in my lap, in the exact position she was before. The jasmine tone was drawing me in like a pincer that would crush you should you decide to fight against it. There was nothing for me to fight against. She was there, right in my lap, where I wanted her. 

With one quick stroke of my hand I flip her hair sideways and proceed to continue kissing her on the shoulder. My lips go up to her neck and down to her shoulder again. For every kiss I gave her, she replied with her own heavy breathing, forcing me to linger with my lips for more than just a fleeting moment. But just lingering kisses would not suffice. From her (omoplat) I move upwards, to the edge of her shoulder, where I bite her skin gently, just enough for her to react.

She coiled in my arms in an instant, an arched spring of love, blissfulness and I daresay so, happiness. Her head went backwards and rested on mine, turning my eyes over from her serene beauty over to the window. It was around five-thirty in a cold December morning. And to our delight, it was snowing outside. As for me, well, I'm no longer drunk. I'm serenely blissful. 

My love is Eleonore.

But I call her Lea.