Wasted Daylight
Dust motes floated in the narrow beam of sunlight that snuck around the edges of his drapes. The afternoon felt thick; heavy air and slow movements. The heat of their two bodies, pressed together on the bed, all the blanket they needed.
A siren rose from the street outside, and his muscles tensed, almost imperceptible. She murmured softly, soothing hands drawing constellations on his body, and he calmed. Not today. The fight could go on without them for the time it took to come back to centre.
It was three in the afternoon, and they still hadn't moved since crawling into the sanctuary of his bed in the early morning light. The steady, reassuring pulse of blood was a slow metronome that marked time against the only measure that mattered.
She twisted against him, the bitter skin of hips, thighs, heels meeting and lighting sparks in the dry tinder that was always there between them. His hand rode the wave of contact up her side, a hot rush of air causing desire to flare in its wake.
In the other room, the telephone rang.
"Ignore it."
"They're probably looking for you."
"I don't mind."
