“Where do you go? When you zone out on me? Deep in thought…” she added to her question, with a smile, no doubt reassuring me she was not accusing, but merely curious.
“Everywhere…” I replied, smirking back and continuing to stroke my fingers down her back.
“Where’s everywhere?” she pressed, snuggling her cheek back on to my chest.
“You know, favorite memories. That sort of thing.”
“What kinds of favorite memories?” she pressed.
“Remember that day when we walked forever to try to take pictures of that big ole cow and then got ice cream and salsa at that little spot you liked so much?”
I could feel her chuckle vibrate through me before she responded, “I remember. But I didn’t think you enjoyed it that much.”
“Yep. Loved every minute.” I responded, somewhat nonchalantly.
“Tell me another,” she coaxed, pulling herself in closer with the arm wrapped around my torso.
“I can remember the first time I made you really laugh,” I offered. “Sitting in the car eating sandwiches.”
At this she rolled her body over and laid her head in my lap, to more easily look up at me.
“Capriati’s?” She asked, lifting a brow through squinted eyes.
“That sounds so good,” she almost whined.
“They’ll have closed hours ago, sadly,” I said, stroking the hair on her forehead. “But I can make you something in a minute, if you want.”
“More memories first,” came the request, as my palm on her scalp caused her face to soften and an expectant grin to spread across her face.
“Remember when we bought the dress?” I asked, my finger tips sliding across the hair behind her ears.
“THE dress? Of course I remember,” she said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, before sighing longingly and resuming her relaxed tone, “It was the first dress I ever had to hide from my mom. But after seeing the way you looked at me in it, I had to get it.”
“It looked too perfect on you,” I added before pausing for a brief moment. “Plus, I was so excited that a pretty girl was willing to wear something just because I loved it on her. Definitely a first for me.”
“We’ve gotten a lot of use out of that thing,” she teased, not stirring from her position.
“First time in Vegas after we got married was my favorite,” I mused.
“Torture…but the best kind,” she murmured as she squirmed, recalling the quick weekend getaway during which that dress almost never came off, despite the almost comical amount of sex we had.
I had felt inspired to remove her panties in the elevator, keeping them in my pocket the rest of the afternoon. The effect exceeded my wildest expectations.
I can remember every sly grope, sneaking away in to quiet corners of casinos and restaurants for a few up-against-the-wall, lip-biting orgasms between urgent trips back to the room for the stuff we couldn’t have gotten away with in public, even in Vegas.
“My leedle spare-oh cood naht hellp hurself.” I continued, in a silly faux Russian accent.
“You’re evil,” she muttered through closed eyes, referring to the fact that my use of this absurd accent never fails to turn her on.
My left hand continued to massage the hairs on her head and my right softly gripped the outside of one of her thighs.
“Dew naht ree-sist me, spare-oh. Eet ease no yoose.” I taunted.
“Dee treep to dee Lehk of deh Bares wahs goo’d time tew,” I followed. “Sew pritty.”
“It was,” she sighed, as if either drifting off to sleep or diving headfirst in to the memory.
“Noh. Nawt eet… Yew.” I replied, gently squeezing her thigh.
“If you keep talking like that you’re going to have to do more than just play with my hair,” she said, lightheartedly but not joking.
“Eet ease noh pro-blem four mee,” I tease, sliding my right hand over the fabric of her pajama pants to rest just underneath the elastic of both of her thick waistbands.
“Yew ree-cole dee hike in dee wooh’d? Dat wahs fay-voor-at tew.” I muttered as I continued to lazily play with the space between her clothes and her lower abdomen.
With a familiar pout and a good natured grumble, she pushed my hand further and pulled her heels together, allowing her legs to part.
The soft flesh between her thighs is the favorite thing my hands have ever touched, anything else coming in such a distant second place as to be unworthy of mention. The hot, pillowy folds, slick with anticipation and the knowledge that her body is responding to me, inviting me to continue, are always a magical combination.
I assumed she was allowing herself to be transported back to the broad trunked tree behind which we stood during that late summer weekend in northern Utah, my hand doing something very similar as I kept watch for fellow hikers.
A deep, throaty out breath and subtle moan escaped her mouth as my longest finger slipped between her lips and inside her, my palm applying firm pressure where it was most needed.
Was she still in the woods with me, bent over, leaning against that same tree as my palm worked the tender skin atop her clit in small circles? Perhaps.
Or had her mind moved on to the boat and the exhilaration of a series of orgasms, administered by a hungry pair of lips and insistent tongue, gently rocked by the slight motion of the cool, blue water of the lake, shielded from others by nothing but the limitations of the unassisted human eye? Either would be worthwhile inspiration.
Or maybe she preferred re-imaging the cool quaintness of the cabin overlooking that same lake in the two easy mornings we spent wrapped up together, soaking in the beauty of the area, awash in the comfort of having someone with whom to share such experiences.
Mentally straddling the past and the present, I withdrew my finger and slid it lovingly upward. It joined a second finger, framing the hard ball of her clit on either side and continued to trace small circles, not with the requisite pressure to quickly evoke climax but sufficient to assure a slow, steady march toward that end.
I presumed her thoughts were honed in on some combination of exciting, erotically charged memories and/or fantasies during the next several minutes as my hands simultaneously soothed her at one end and built tension at the other. My own mind, however, quickly cycled between mindfully savoring the perfection of the moment and memories ranging from the sexual to the quotidian, reliving, for my own enjoyment, a montage of the experiences that make up our shared history and weave our lives together.
I love caring for her. I love thinking of her. I love sharing my life with her. I live for these moments when she lets me do this for her.
Orgasms. The little punctuation marks between the every day experiences of life, providing rhythm and emphasis, creating brief pauses that allow for reflection and distillation. To remind each other we’re still enjoying the ride.
The tension in her face was familiar and I knew she was close. I slowed to a stop.
“Jerk,” she muttered without opening her eyes, breaking the silence to protest my choice to delay.
“Oh, you wanted me to keep going?” came my playful retort, as I broke character.
A rolling growl through closed lips spurred me on. Deep breathes accompanied the return to circles, now with intermittent increases in speed and pressure followed by mischievous pauses, meant to torment, but not without higher purpose.
I delighted in watching the beautiful agony of forcing her to the edge of ecstasy only to keep her longing for release, buzzing with the urgency of one waiting anxiously for amazing news. She wanted to cum so badly. The subtle undulation- the sensual rolling of her hips upward toward my teasing fingers- could not be misunderstood.
Sensing that my game would soon reach the point of rapidly diminishing returns, I determined to bring it to an end, whispering down to her, “Ready?”
Her chin quivered as she nodded, clearly still enjoying the playful ceding of control of her pleasure entirely to me.
My hand accelerated slightly again but this time it wouldn’t stop until she came.
Engulfed in the moment, her face contorted as she seemed to will herself over the edge, bracing herself as if the first of several blissful contractions were a bus about to hit her yet also somehow be the best part of her day. Listening to her labored breathing as she shook and seized through a handful of powerful shudders was easily the best part of mine.
As her breathing returned to normal, her eyes opened and a pleasantly exhausted smile replaced her focused expression.
“How’s the headache?” I asked, my fingers continuing to trace the hairs on her head.
“Not totally gone yet but better than a bit ago,” was her reply.
I continued to play with her hair in silence for several minutes before either of us spoke again.
“Do you ever think about what your life would be like if we hadn’t gotten together?” she asked with casual earnestness.
“Not often,” I said, honestly, “but sometimes.”
“Ever think you would have been happier with someone else?” was her follow up.
After a momentary pause to consider the question, I replied:
“I like to think I would have still found happiness without you. I’m sure you would have too. So, maybe I could have been just as happy. But I can’t imagine being much happier.”