It sure was a pleasant evening. I'm back first in our shared room, lying on the bed on my back, arms crossed behind my head, waiting for him, knowing where he is, what he's doing. Been there, done that, too. Despite the little distraction I found, my body already starts yearning again. The quick relief didn't last long.
Our room is dark when he returns. I'm feigning sleep and he's trying not to wake me as he undresses and washes up. The mattress tells me when he sits down at the edge of our shared bed, winds his gun belt around the bedpost. Not that I would need its telling. I know exactly where he is anyway. I can sense him. Always. Now he's crawling under the blankets. I can feel him, feel the heat of his body. And I smell him. His own unique scent blended with whiskey, gun oil, perfume and sex - an intoxicating mixture.
He shifts closer, almost touching me. Almost. I would have loved to lay my arm around him, casually resting it on his hip, coaxing him a little closer until he would rest against me. Sometimes he does that when he's sound asleep, giving me dreams about what else we could do, what we could share, making my heart race and my crotch ache.
I settle for a soft sigh instead and turn to my side, eyeing him through the curtain of my lashes. He turns around and looks at me for a moment, his eyes sparkling in the faint light of the moon. Then he smiles, smiles his incredible warm smile and breathes softly, "'night, partner."
Then he closes his eyes, too, takes in a long, deep breath as he slips into sleep.
I lay awake, waiting, but I can't find sleep for a long time. I can't stop watching him, waiting for the day my shameful thoughts will fade away, knowing that day will never come ...