I lay abed not asleep and dreamed with my eyes on the pitted ceiling, seeing nothing. In this nothing a picture slowly formed so that I could see your slightly curving upper lip and pouting lower...felt your sweet kiss, melting my body, throbbing red hot. Bodies tangled irretrievably, writhing in pleasure.

But you are not my only lover. Not by a long shot.

I slide my tongue along the sharp edge of your jawline, wishing you were someone else but reveling in your ever tensing body nonetheless. You look through me with pretty amber eyes filled with comforting kindness, but my nerve endings seem to feel his touch flying over my skin, squeezing, exploring with untamed abandon.

You are my lover; he is my love. My heart, my soul, and the death of me. He walks in my thoughts and by my side, a shadow of a memory that I can neither remember nor forget. He is an occasional voice at the other end of the telephone line telling me "I love you" and meaning "I will never come back. Things will never be the same."

So I accept it as you take a rosy nipple into your mouth, caressing it with your lips and the occasional scrape of the teeth. I accept it when you run your fingers lightly along the inside of my leg, stroking from calf to knee, stopping in the hollow to tease and make me sigh. You have learned my body the way I have never bothered to learn yours, the way I know my love would hold me so close to him that we would almost be a part of each other when our song would play. The way you never do. The way no man ever will again.

I let my hands travel down from your face for the first time. My fingers walk themselves down your chest to find the button of your jeans, teasing and trailing all along the way, your anticipation mounting as the minutes slide silkily away. I do care for you in my own way, but this thing we keep doing is wrong. I hate you for it.

Learn more about this author, Marcia Middleton.
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