The Long and Short of It

Riley eases the anger out of me, at my first sight of her. As she does every morning. It's not real anger, I know--or maybe it is. The kind of low, simmering anger that comes from spending fourteen hours--4pm to 6am in a commercial kitchen. At my first sight of her, sprawled in the sheets of our bed, all of it is forgotten; the sleeplessness, the order-sheets which never arrive quite how I've ordered them, the stomach-deep bonfire that my body has spent the last fourteen hours slowly building, stoking, tending. The anger. The anxiety. The incompetence.

All of it--forgotten, at my first fight of Riley. When she sleeps, she appears perfectly peaceful. One arm resting on the pillow above her head, fingers curled ever so slightly in their spread. How her brown hair spills over the pillowcase and, above it, the curve made between her neck and her shoulders. How the white sheets over her body rise and fall softly with her breathing. The faint parting of her pink lips, how the hand of her other arm hangs off the edge of the mattress.

There's nothing on earth, I think, that shows the same kind of trust as somebody whose willing to let you come home to them sleeping. It's different. Different than going to sleep in the same bed, at the same time, as somebody else. It's a feeling that I've always thought I should be able to put words to, but I can't. Never have been able to. Maybe because I'm a chef--not a writer. Maye because the quality of it is uncapturable; how in sleep the powerful animation of her body becomes something softer, how her liveliness becomes something pretty and still, how the normally fierce features of her face become something serene and demure and entirely peaceful.

Each morning, seeing Riley like this, a small part of me feels guilty. Guilty, because the reaction her softness elicits from me is anything but soft. Like fingers squeezing putty between them as they tighten. It takes everything inside of me not to walk silently to the side of the bed; to stand there beside her sleeping figure and reach down. Not to place my hand around her neck. Not to choke her--not that, but only to feel the soft humming inside of me that comes from not doing it. The beating of her pulse under my fingers, to feel her breathing underneath my palm.

Maybe that's the trust, I think. Maybe we all know that there's some small part in each other that wants this, that craves it. Maybe that's the sword we all choose to crawl into bed with and sleep beside.

Or maybe I'm just a monster. I don't know. I imagine that most monsters don't think of themselves as monsters.

Maybe I'm just a person. Maybe we both are. Maybe that's the long and short of it.

Easing the bedroom door closed in my hand, so as not to wake her, I quietly make my way across the dark room. On one side, two open doors lead to our walk-in closet and our bathroom. The bathroom is still lit by a low light from over the sink, the one that Riley leaves on for me when I come home after my shift. Without turning on any others, I close the bathroom door behind me and turn on the shower.

Fourteen hours of anger washes off me as I stand beneath the rushing water. The smell of olive oil and grease, natural gas and onions and cleaning chemicals--they all follow my anger down the drain. Turning my head up and opening my mouth, I let the water run over my skin. It patters against my forehead and the top of my hairline, running in small rivulets down my cheeks and my chin and my chest. It clings to the small curls of hair that it finds there, the low light making the deep blonde appear almost black in their wetness.

I squeeze a dime of shampoo into my palm, massaging it through my hair. Taking a bar of soap from the small alcove in the shower wall, I scrub myself from head to toe. Under my arms, under my neck, pulling back the foreskin of my cock and soaping there as well. The dull thrum of the water against it is a familiar feeling, but one strange even after thirty years.

Turning off the water, I step out of the shower and towel myself off. Riley always leaves a towel hanging on the back of the door, before she goes to bed; we have our routine down to a near ritual. I work as a chef and she works doing radio-ads for a couple of the local stations; it means we're rarely awake at the same times, but when we are we make the most of it. We've both changed out schedules to have Wednesday-Thursdays off together. We have a couple of hours, most days, after she comes home from her shift at the station and before I leave for mine in the kitchen.

Leaving my clothes on the bathroom floor, where I'd dropped them, I turn off the light on my way out of the room. As I make my way through the half-light of the bedroom, I pause at the foot of the bed to admire Riley for another moment. She's not perfect, I know--hell, after nearly a decade together, I know that better than anyone--but neither am I. I'm definitely not perfect. But here, in this moment, while she's a sleeping tangle beneath the white spread of our sheets, she's perfect to me.

Sometimes I feel it when she's awake as well. When I catch her out of the corner of my eye, the odd time I catch her in deep concentration while working on an ad script, when she replies to somebody in a tone of voice that only I recognize. The kind of voice that's full of dry, private humor and balances right on the edge of being mocking. Every couple of days, when she turns her stare on me and her almost hawk-like eyes catch the light in just the right way and brighten; how they shine keenly, wildly, almost predatory. In those moments too, she's perfect. Maybe not perfect for everyone. Perfect for me.

Crawling as gently as I can onto the bed, I pull the sheets up and draw Riley into my arms beneath them. She draws a deep breath through her nose, snuggling slightly more firmly against my body--bringing her nakedness against mine. Maybe sleep lifts from her for a moment, and maybe not. By the steadiness her breathing returns to, the looseness of her mouth and her hands, I think not.

I don't think she's joined me in wakefulness; I think I've joined her in her dreams.

Resting one hand on the side of her body, just beside her breast, I let it trail slowly downward. My palm is still slightly slick-feeling from the shower, the dampness from my hair seeping into the pillow beneath me. As my hand moves down, over her stomach and the curve of her hip toward her thigh, it brings the light sheet with it.

Leaning forward slightly, I touch my lips against the top of her shoulder. Then lower, to her arm. Then higher, to the hair just behind her ear. Bringing my hand back up, my touch feather-light, I trace my fingers across the curve of her breasts. My fingers find her nipples; slowly, one after the other. My touch lingers just long enough to feel the tiny swelling as they stiffen. Her already slightly parted lips widen a fraction further; she's not snoring, but her breathing has deepened slightly in sleep, taking on a rhythmic kind of hum beneath each inhale. For a moment, I wonder what she's dreaming about as I touch her like this.

Something pleasant, I hope.

For a few minutes, it's all I do. Let my hand move slowly over her body; resting flat against her stomach to feel her breathing, reaching up to trace the faintest of lines down from between her breasts down to her bellybutton and back up. Smoothing over the curve of her thighs. As I reach here, I let my hand slide between them--into the valley created by their openness, hidden from view by the tangled sheet.

As my fingers trace the smooth, lightly-haired skin on either side of her vulva, Riley stirs. She draws closer, head turning on the pillow in a way that pushes her cheek up against the fabric, mouth still open as she breathes. Something pleasant indeed. I can feel her wetness on the flat of my middle finger as I use it to part her lips. Not rubbing, but only a slow exploration of her crevasse.

It's usually the first touch, that wakes her. Not today. She's obviously been sleeping deeply; for a moment I consider raising my hand and wrapping it around her, leaving her to her sleep for a couple minutes more. A quick glance at the clock tells me it's twenty to seven, when Riley's phone alarm went off for work.

Just as I'm about to, I feel her shift slightly. It's different than before, a deliberate motion that I don't realize means she's woken up until she leans forward to touch her mouth against mine. If her breath is a bit stale from sleep, I don't notice--or I don't care. I can taste the lingering peppermint of her toothpaste, the warmth of her breathing, the softness of her still slightly-open lips as they touch against mine and then press slightly more forcefully. Between her legs, my one finger becomes two. They move together, down and then back up through her wetness.

"Good morning," she mumbles as she draws back from the kiss. She's obviously still foggy from sleep, her voice a bit different than it usually is--a bit scratchier around the edges.

"It is now," I lean forward to press a quick kiss against her forehead.

"What time is it?" Her eyes appear--two wonderful circles of dark, wood-smoke brown. Brown, with just a bit of deep gray around their centers.

"Twenty-to."

Her face softens ever so slightly, a small smile turning up the corners of her lips against the pillowcase. Beneath the sheets, I feel one of her hands reach out toward me. Her fingers find the bottom of my scrotum, following the slightly raised line in its center up to where it meets the bottom of my cock. At her touch, I feel myself stiffen. Her smile widens slightly as her fingers close around it, holding me for a moment. When she begins to stroke, it's a slow action. Her hand moving leisurely from the base of my shaft upward, until two of her fingers brush over the head, and then back down.

"What were you dreaming about?" I tuck my free arm beneath her back, drawing her slightly closer. From this position, we can both feel the backs of our hands against our own body as we touch one another.

"I was--" Riley draws a bit of air between her lips as my fingers enter her for the first time this morning. Around my fingers, her hips begin to roll ever so slightly. Back and forth beneath the sheet. The frequency of her stroking increases, a change which would have been unnoticeable if not for the way it made my heart begin beating faster in my chest. She gives me a sleepy smile, drawing her lips a bit closer to my ear.

"I was dreaming that a handsome man had crawled into bed with me," she whispered.

"Any idea what this handsome man wanted?" I find myself smiling as well, her breathing a hot tickle on the skin just below my ear, sending a flush of heat from my neck down into my chest.

"Probably the same thing that I did," Riley grabs the side of my neck with her lips--the slow pulling away accompanied by a sound and the rotating of her hips.

I'm forced to remove my hand from between her legs as she straddles me. Her thighs close around my hips, her arms reaching around the pillow beneath my head and holding there. As she leans backward, I feel myself sliding inside of her. The tightness of her giving way as my head moves between the wet folds of her labia and into the unbelievable heat of the passage beyond. Beside my neck, her breathing has taken on an almost feverish quality. It's almost as hot as the space between her legs.

"You want me, baby?" I breathe into the hair on top of her head.

I know enough about Riley to read what she wants. Not everything--not even close to everything, but enough to understand. Understand what it means when she begins to rock her hips against mine; without preamble. The racing tempo of her heartbeat against my chest. The silent, almost begging invitation of her body.

Most mornings we began slowly, building toward a crescendo that came--almost impressively often--only seconds before her alarm. Today, by mutual agreement, was different.

One of her hands went into my hair; it was that hand, rather than her body on top of mine, that held me in place. For the moment, there was nothing she needed me to do except exactly what I was doing. My cock plunged in and out of her, controlled entirely by the movements of her body. Against my neck, I could feel Riley's breathing dissolving into a hot series of quivers.

This, too, I could read. My arousal almost violent in its stillness; hers a fog of still-sleepy heat. This what she needed; the moment of complete control that only made it all the more powerful as I took it. Not forcefully, but like an object passed from one hand to the other. Around my cock, with every plunging movement, I could feel her wetness growing. Her arousal piqued; hips slapping rapidly against my own, each one a nearly frantic admission.

The hand beneath the pillow pulled out, reaching back over the curve of her hips. I could feel the slight trembling in her arm as I slid my hand down it, following its length. Against my neck, each breath carried the slight whisper of a 'fuck'.

"Naughty," I reached her hand with my own. I couldn't see it, but I could feel what was happening behind her; the length of her middle finger sunk into the tight hole of her bum.

"That's my job," I curled my fingers around hers as I spoke. That's my job, I'd said, but I knew that we'd both heard: That's mine. The subtle difference between what was said and what was heard was enough to send a shiver of pleasure through Riley's body.

It was different each time; different, but the same. This was the moment--the hand-off. At my touch, her finger withdrew slowly from her hole. Reaching down to gather some of the wetness between her legs, I replaced it with my own. The change in width, the slow entrance, brought a drawn-out gasp from Riley's lips.

"My turn," I breathed. On top of me, I felt her body go loose.

Turning my legs, I placed the flats of my feet against the mattress. My legs held Riley's open. In her bum, my finger didn't thrust, but only took on a slow in-and-out pattern as I began to fuck her from below. I took my cue from what she had been doing earlier; deep and fast. I heard her voice explode against the side of my head as I took over the drumming rhythm; each collision rocking the bed below us and moving her body against mine.

Both of our breathing has gone ragged; a combination of exertion and desire. Using my free hand, I wrap my arm over Riley's waist and curl my fingers against her hip; a gesture that's tender in the way it holds her to my body, and controlling in the way my hand holds her. My fingers almost vice-like against the curved bone of her hip; holding her in place while I fuck her.

I feel it, a moment before she finishes. The sudden tightening of her previous loose body, the way her pussy grips against the shaft of my cock, how her breathing stutters upward and then catches, right on the apex of her inhale.

"Fuck!" My cry is echoed by a softer one, against my neck. A small spasm runs through Riley's body, from the crown of her dark-haired head right down into the bottom of her feet.

Without thinking, I eased the finger out of her bum. Planting that hand flat in the sheets, I used my hips and my other hand to roll us both over. I heard Riley's quiet gasp echo through the momentarily quiet room.

I might have said my turn before--but now it was really my turn. As my hand closed around Riley's throat, I saw her head turn back and her eyes close, fluttering slightly. With that grip, I let a little bit of my previous anger come back. Not enough to be stifling, but just enough that I could feel it leaving my body with each thrust between her legs. Let it burn through us, in both directions, everywhere that we touch.

"Harder--!" Riley gasps, beneath my hand.

It's not my grip, that she means. That's perfect. Instead I angle my hips downward slightly, so that each time I thrust forward the ridge between the base of my penis and my pelvis connect with her clit. Her voice becomes a pattern of small, harsh expletives as I fuck harder; my balls slapping against her back hole, my pelvis nudging her clit, my hand holding her in place.

"Alex--I'm--!" Her voice chokes off, body thrashing beneath mine as she comes. I feel it in the base of my penis first, the slight swelling and the upward jerk in reaction to her body squeezing around it. Then between my chest and my throat--like the breath has locked inside of me.

One last thrust, and I'm there. I let the pulling muscles of her body draw me in as I bury myself inside of Riley and come. Both of our bodies are slick with sweat; locked against one another, my slowly-softening cock still deep inside of her.

It pulls free as I fall sideways, careful not to fall onto her leg. My grip releases from the front of her neck, instead sliding sideways around the back as I use it to draw her against me. For a moment we only lay in the half-light, breathing against one another. I can feel her lips touching the curve of my jaw, from below, as I struggle to catch my breath.

Distantly, I realize that there's a sound. It only comes into focus as my breathing lowers, my racing heartbeat descending back toward normalcy. Reaching past me, Riley grabs her phone from the bedside table and mutes the alarm. She tosses it into the sheets, somewhere near our feet.

Rolling over, she presses her mouth against mine in a brief, deep kiss. The back of her fingers stoke slowly down my cheek, over my jaw. Her thumb traces the line of my bottom lip as she studies my face.

"Sweet dreams, baby. See you after work."

I lean up to return the kiss, feeling Riley smile before she backs away. Her weight shifts slightly on the bed as she moves across it; her first few steps on the floorboards are a bit shaky, taking a moment to get her legs properly underneath her. By the time I hear the shower begin to run, I'm already slipping away to sleep. Asleep, and to sweet dreams indeed.

The Long and Short of It ---- THE END.