only one dangerous thing
You stir awake. A noise? Did you hear a noise?
I’m next to you in your bed, back snuggled up to you. No matter which orientation we start in, I always wake up facing away. I tell you I’m guarding you, or overheating, depending on how serious I’m being at the time.
The noise again. I make a noise like I’m clearing my throat, and then shivering. Almost a whimper. I’ve been having them more frequently lately, after the mishap with the grimoire.
You half-turn to drape your knee on my hip. I’m warm, like always, and you’re warm, having recently processed a young jogger you met of an evening. She is distributed all around you, her diligent fitness converted by one act of gluttony into luxurious fat on your thighs, belly and breasts. Last night your body voided the rest of her—long, smooth, easy and satisfying—leaving only the best of her with you.
You love your body, what it does for you.
I whimper again. Oh yeah, you were feeling protective, before you got distracted by your running friend.
You splay your fingers on my back and draw them up and down in strokes light enough to relax, firm enough not to tickle. I make a sound like a stuttering moan.
The feeling of warm skin beneath your fingers brings with it a need to pull closer that is inevitably tied up with consumption. You resist, easily. I’ve lasted this long, it would be a shame to eat me so casually. Though a part of you still toys with the thought. What could be more natural? What better way to rescue me from my nightmare?
Rather than take my body, you share yours, shifting your hips closer so your belly conforms to the sleeping curve of my back. Your melting softness moulds to my spine and relaxed musculature, and provides enough muffin top for both of our hips.
I’ve stopped making sounds. Instead I press backwards slightly, burrowing into your proferred belly.
“Nightmare?” You ask, your lips buried in the short hair at the nape of my neck. It tickles your nose and smells of eucalyptus.
“Yeah,” you hear me say, voice still thick with sleep. “Bad one.”
With a twist of your leg underneath me you sit up and across me. Your thigh slides smoothly across my hips and applies pressure to push be down: I lie back as you platonically mount me. Your belly hanging heavy, your breasts pendulous against my chest, makes any motion either of us makes an electric massage upon your skin.
“Don’t worry,” you murmur, letting your weight fall firmer upon me. You can feel every contour of my body as your skin squishes around its edges. A kiss you place upon my neck has fangs. My blood remains unspilled: you’re just making sure you have my full attention. “There’s only one dangerous thing you have to worry about.”
You shake your long hair out, blanketing off my peripheral vision and ensuring I see only your moonlit face. My expression as you descend is enraptured.
Your kiss is firm as your lips, yielding as the void of your mouth. I return your kiss like I’m trying to fill it, but able only to tease your tongue, your hard palette, behind your teeth with my own tongue. We kiss like that a long while, nightmare wiped from my mind, sleep from yours, as your perfect body debates which kindled hunger to fulfill.