Mourning Ecstasy (excerpt)

Myra watched Patrick sleep. She never took pleasure in watching a lover sleep before, and rarely did she ever let one spend the night. Had they not both collapsed from hours of shameless dissipation, he may have made his way home. But Myra didn’t mind that he was there, breathing in her face, sleeping in her bed, his head sunken into her pillow. Her emerald green plaid comforter lay just below his naked shoulders. The sunlight streamed through the side of the window where the nicotine stained, white shade didn’t cover. His full lashes shined golden strawberry in the natural spotlight and his cheeks were still adolescent in appearance. But his neck and shoulders we that of a man.

Cinnamon colored freckles colonized his olive skin. Myra thought then and now that his skin is the most exquisite and unlikely combination of two dominant traits. Her finger tip gently pet his eyelash and then followed the bridge of his nose to the tip. Her hand descended to his lips and gently brushed them while she thought about kissing them. He lay there, still sleeping. Her hand traveled to the part of his back exposed from the blanket. Myra tenderly traced invisible designs into his freckles. She thought it would be interesting to discover which lover’s cipher would be the one to wake him.

Her left hand positioned itself between his shoulder blades. She used her middle finger and spelled out, “Good Morning.” He didn’t move. She then spelled out, “Freckles are sexy.” His breathing got a bit stronger. Myra smiled and wrote, “I want you.” A deep breath raised his back, but still his eyes were closed. “I need you.” She wrote instinctively and immediately wondered why she did. Patrick opened his eyes, quick, and then looked into her’s without fear or hesitation. In his skin she wrote, “Yes.”

Patrick kissed her, but this was no morning kiss. This was a kiss after hours of flirting, a kiss after seduction, a kiss of desire. It was the kind of kiss that people usually have to work for. He kissed Myra this way because it was the only way he ever wanted to kiss her. He moved on top of her, and she didn’t mind. Myra was and is opposed to the missionary position. The feeling of powerlessness killed all arousal in Myra. Patrick and she discussed this subject matter ad nauseum yet, this morning, she left trepidation to abandon. Trust replaced fear.

He was heavy, but not burdensome. Naked together, her legs wrapped around his, her ankles resting on the inside of his lower calves. Patrick’s arms were wrapped around Myra’s body, holding her tight to him, and she strung her arms through his grasping his back, pressing her hands into him, as he moved inside her. Myra moved her hands from his back to his face. Eyes open, they kissed each other. He didn’t need to touch her breasts, she didn’t need to be in control. What was happening was more than sexual, it was organic, natural They wanted to be close, and only to each other.

There was no sound in the room but theirs, and Patrick’s breathing ignited her to breathlessness. They stopped kissing and looked at each other, her holding his face, his chest pressed into her breasts, the suffocation of movement respired a new definition for the oldest pastime. Her head felt lightened with rush but not unfocused. Patrick submitted to his hidden beast and let it take over. For the first time he made no attempt to deny or restrain it. Myra could feel this rush move to her neck and face. She pushed her pelvis into his. Her hands in his face and the tips of her fingers feeling his coarse, crimson curls between them inflamed intemperance.

“How?” He said breathless. The pleasure was greater than any she’d ever felt. “How are you doing this.” She looked into his eyes with true confusion when she asked. He met her look and said nothing. No smile, no words, just purpose. “Patrick.” She said as she held his face. He put his forehead to hers and they barely breathed. Her body began to shake, every muscle contracted in uncharted pleasure and it enraptured Patrick.