how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

17. wellington boots & alarm clocks

I stand on my toes, pulling down the top of his white T-Shirt. His chest is hot where my mouth grazes it, soft and blushed and pleading to be exposed into the white light of the kitchen. Hitching up his shirt from the hem, I set my arms on his sides, letting him lift me up onto the counter and crossing my ankles behind his back. His buttoned down shirt and naked skin whisper over my sun dress, riding it up so it pooled around my thighs. The heat is overbearing -- with the sun dress and Michael's body and Michael's hands and Michael's lips and -- oh. I roll my head to the side while he pushes down the collar of my dress, kissing along the side of my throat and neck and sucking lightly.

"Say my name." His voice hums on me.

"Your... name?"

"I love how it sounds when you say it." His hands find my thighs, pressing them closer around him. I whimper. "Crap, did that hurt?"

"Oh, no, Mikey..." I lift my hips off the counter and further towards him. He stares at me, surprised evident in his wide eyes. I keep my teeth on my bottom lip and breathe in. His sweaty palms stop midway up my sun dress. "God, that felt good."

He moves forward, kissing me again. My neck feels hot. "Kitten," he says.

I lean forward, again, but the sudden thrash of the porch door jerks me back. I put a hand to my chest, feeling my raising heart beat. Michael even whirls around to stare. The window at the head of the porch door only shows the stretch of blue-black night, but just underneath the shadowed glow of the lamp, a pair of red wellington boots stand on the welcome mat. I cock my head to the side, giving Michael a quizzical look while he grins, approaching the door, clicking it open and bringing the boots inside.

He examines them carefully, holding them up to eye level with himself. "Wellies!"

"Why the hell--"

"I don't care!" He's laughing while speaking, setting the boots just beside the coat rack. "They're brand new! They look like they could fit you, too." He sizes me up, as if this is the first time he took my measurements into consideration.

"I am not wearing boots someone just left on your doorstep." I cross my arms and shake my head. My throat throbs in small patches, and I remember his mouth tracking my skin, his fingers tugging at the skirt of my dress. My everything feels heated up.

"Fine. I'm selling them."

"Who'd buy them?"

"People who need wellies." He shrugs. "Duh."

"How do you get from playing with the waistband of my underwear to planning your future with a pair of red wellingtons?"

He motions with his hands, helping me down from his counter. It's a lot higher off the ground than I imagined, and the weight of the tiled floor thrums through my frame and stings my bare feet.

"Magic," he says. I quirk an eyebrow and he chuckles, dropping a kiss through my hair and lifting me onto his back. "Let's go to bed. I'm tired."

+++

"Michael?"

"Mm?"

"Can you turn off your alarm, please?"

"My alarm's going off?"

"Very loudly, yes."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know, Michael, but your alarm is going off."

"Can you turn it off?"

"It's on your side of the bed."