Prompt: tangled
She does not cuddle. She never has and she's fairly confident that she never will. When she had sex for the first time she was 16 and she'd been in a beat up old station wagon. The guy had waited barely two minutes before climbing off her and starting the car back up.
And of course a shrink would track her hatred of cuddling back to her mother, who was about as affectionate as a porcupine. She'd heard that before.
i Blah, Blah, you need to forgive your mother, blah blah. i
It was all useless bullshit anyway. Hours of counseling hadn't helped her marriage. She could never give Morris what he needed. Or at least that's what he told her when he came back from screwing other women.
She had no urge to stay cuddled up with Mike or Spencer or whoever the hell it was.
Eventually she'd realized that she wasn't a person who liked touch all that much. She couldn't curl perfectly against a significant other; she didn't walk in step with her boyfriend, her hand never fit into another person's.
That's why she was surprised to wake the morning after their first time together and find herself, not cuddling—that was not a good enough term—she was more….tangled up in him. Their limps wrapped together in such a way that she couldn't tell where she ended and he began. His fingers were in her hair; her head was on his chest, and unlike hundreds of times before she felt no need to pull away. She closed her eyes, breathed deep, relaxed against his body…and cuddled.