The 'Mentalist' Association

Awkward at First

Awkward at First
By @EntwifeIncognit (Twitter), America

Some suggestive descriptions throughout - not strongly rated however

Sometimes, very early in the morning when I've woken too soon and don't want to disturb her, I slip from bed and sip tea while the kitchen window fills with the pink light of dawn. My wife will walk into the kitchen, naked, the warm blush of sleeping next to me under our covers still on her skin. Her hair will be a glossy deep chestnut muss, tousled by her pillow, my fingers, my kisses goodnight. She may mumble hello and pour a cup of the coffee that I made for her.

Everything about her is relaxed and flowing, moving in memory for what she needs, eyes slit open enough to sense light and shadow, shaded even then by the thick half-moons of her lowered lashes. Her small feet are bare, her breasts full and moving in counterpoint to the sway of her hips. She's as innocent as the light, as fresh as the sunrise breeze ruffling through the open window.

I rarely get to see her aureolae so relaxed that they tilt up her breasts, reshaping her. Their thin delicate skin is puffy and shiny. This sight is available to me only from afar because as soon as I come near, touch or arouse her in any way, they stiffen and wrinkle under the hardening peaks of her nipples. Sometimes just catching my gaze does this. It makes me mad with desire.

But I can't touch her. My fingers long for the soft skin covering every blissful curve, my body to feel hers, to join with her and live in the shelter of her breath telling me everything. How I make her feel. How she loves me. Ardor forcing us to the sublime heights.

I can't do it on these mornings. I let her pass undisturbed in my waking dream paralysis until, coffee in hand, she turns for the bathroom to start a shower. Her pink haunches roll in the dawn, carrying her from my waking dream. And I am left pointing to the sky in unfulfilled blessing. The happiest moments of my life. A simple morning cup of coffee that she elevates to living, tantalizing art.

They walked out of the TSA building towards the convertible, Jane awkward on crutches. "Oh, you've still got our rental. Should we go back to the Blue Bird?"

Teresa softly set her hand on his where it gripped the crutch, grounding herself, needing reassurance. "I, I don't know what to do." She released him to make his way to the passenger side, but he stopped to really look at her. "I don't either. But we'll figure it out. Tell me what you want."

Her mind was full of noise, white as a blizzard. She blurted the first coherent thought that popped through. "What you said on the plane . . . it changed everything."

Jane leaned against the car, propping the crutches next to him. "I wanted you to know. I couldn't let you leave without telling you the truth." His mouth worked as he tried to avoid saying something that might make him seem selfish. "And, and give myself a last desperate chance to win you."

Stepping closer, Teresa's eyes were a little wet, the light in them soft, loving. "It worked very well. It was just what I needed. But it didn't tell me where to go from there."

"You're here, with me . . . instead of in D.C. with . . . Pike. We'll find our way." There was no fear in him. Teresa wasn't having second thoughts. She was just trying to find her way. It was not the time to touch her or interfere in any physical way.

"Yeah. I know."

"You got off the plane. How did that happen? I'm curious. What saved me?"

She smiled, her eyes twinkling when she looked at him. "What you said. For everybody on the plane to take care of me . . . the woman you love . . . that woman in 12B." Winking, she added, "And of course that you loved me and couldn't bear to be without me."