In Dreams

Let there be an emissary between them [and let that emissary be] the kiss and sweet words. — Paraphrased from a hadith.

In his dreams, she reaches for him. She smiles up at him, her arms open and inviting, and her dark eyes shine like stars in the cool semidarkness. He kisses her mouth softly, savoring the feel of her full lips against his. Not too much, not too fast. Not after all the waiting. Her fingers twine into his hair: she’s not going to let him go, not ever again. She tastes like honey and sweat and heat. Paradise in a woman’s form. He vows to tell her if he can ever bear to stop kissing her.

He takes his hands from where they’ve been cradling her face. They make a slow path down her body: he strokes her throat, brushes his thumbs over her collarbones, massages her shoulders until she becomes almost boneless under his ministering hands. And, slowly, he brings his hands down past her scars to cup her breasts.

He kneads the soft flesh there gently, squeezing and caressing with his right hand while his left arm circles around her back to hold her close. She bites his lip, urging him on. He pinches her nipple, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb and enjoying the feeling as the small bud grows hard.

He breaks the kiss despite her whimper of protest. Her complaint turns to a sigh of pleasure as he kisses the place where her jaw and throat meet, kisses her again just above and between her breasts as though he would heal her of every pain the world ever inflicted on her. Her hands splay over his back, her fingers run up and down his arms. He can feel her heartbeat under his lips, fast and fluttering in her chest like a bird in a child’s hands. He lowers his head to where his hand is still playing with her nipple.

She gasps and wiggles slightly when he replaces his fingers with his mouth. Her breasts are small but round and perfect under his lips, pomegranates after years of thirst. Slowly, softly, he closes his teeth around the small, hard bud and laves it with his tongue. She arches against his lips with a faint cry and he shudders with the effort of staying calm. He’ll be thrice-damned if he unmans himself with her. He takes more of her into his mouth, suckling eagerly as his hand teases her other breast. She moans and twists under him, running her hands over his shoulders and arms. He moves to her other breast, lapping and sucking, giving it the same thorough treatment as the first until she’s moaning and clutching at his hair.

His hand moves down her belly slowly, teasingly. He lifts his head from her chest, kisses her again, as his hand goes ever lower until it touches the soft curls between her thighs. His fingertips stroke there, barely touching her. She lifts her hips and pushes against his hand. He cups her with the palm of his hand, wrist up, rubbing lightly over the whole of her. And then, slowly, he curls his index finger toward his palm, just barely inside of her. She’s already slippery, warm and waiting, but she will wait a little longer yet.

He strokes along the length of her, up and down, a bit deeper each time. Another man might do the same in search, but this is purely indulgent enjoyment for both of them: he knows her, knows exactly where his fingers will find the already swollen bud of her clitoris. She sucks in air through her teeth when he makes the first gentle pass over it with the pads of his fingertips, then moans as he begins to make slow, smooth circles. After a few moments, she begins to shiver.

He moves his other hand to slip a finger inside of her, slowly thrusting within her. Then, as she opens to him, another. She groans and clutches at his shoulders imploringly, pulling him up and over her until his hips are between her thighs.

He shifts slightly to take his length in his hand. As he did before with his fingers, he rubs himself against the line of her, teasing her clit with the head. She reaches one slender hand between them and takes him in her hand, placing him at her entrance. “Now,” she says in his ear.

They fit together as though each was designed for the other alone. There is a moment when they lie still, joined and intertwined on the crisp sheets, savoring the feeling of filling and being filled. And then, slowly at first, he begins to move within her. They settle into a smooth, rocking rhythm that keeps them close without him crushing her.

She wraps strong legs around his hips. Her mouth races over his cheeks, his eyes, his throat, anywhere she can reach, as though she would devour him. She bucks against him wildly, meeting his barely-controlled thrusts with her own frenzied ones. Unable to stand it anymore, he lets go. He drives into her again and again, inexorably.

He tells her that he loves her, over and over like a prayer. Finally, he’s able to give voice to the words that have waited so patiently for so long: sometimes it was all he could do not to scream them out to the world. She does scream at the end, his name exploding from her lips as she stiffens and shudders. A moment later and he joins her, his climax so intense that, for a moment, all he can remember is her name. He is hers, and she is his, completely and forever.

They lie together, drowsy and contented, perfect peace in the moonlight that pours through the windows. Her fingers stroke the small of his back, caressing the hollows of muscle at the base of his spine. She murmurs his name as her eyes close: all the angels in Heaven singing praise could not make a sweeter sound. He carefully shifts his weight off of her and nuzzles his face into the long, sweet curve of her neck. They sleep.

He wakes again, reaching for her with a sleepy smile. His fingers touch only the sticky air, and bitterly he remembers where he is. Work to be done, people to be avoided, lies to be crafted. And, as always, the waiting.

Until the night returns, and she with it.