The Apology

I have a nasty talent for bottling anger. I know, sometimes he doesn't have any idea that I'm pissed at him. I generally stew over whatever happened, making excuses for him and myself in my head until something snaps me back to reality, and I move on. Whether or not he's part of the solution is often up for grabs. Tonight wasn't one of those nights.

"I'm not your ex," he groused, glancing over his shoulder at me. The dim light from the lamp on his desk silhouetted his head, making it impossible to read his expression. Not that I couldn't

hear

the annoyance in his voice.

"I never said you were. You read far too much into these things sometimes." I don't even really remember what the fight was about, how it started, or why it was still going. Our little spats generally break down to a single major point of contention: one of us reacting to the other like our respective exes. I hope we move on from that some time soon.

Turning back to his computer, he resumed the tappa tappa tappa on the keys which told me that the conversation was over. Absentmindedly, I considered the irony that my ex always held it against me when I spent the night typing instead of paying attention to the same blank point in space that he was interested in.

I wouldn't be bothered by it if he didn't know that we were having a fight and I'm not done yet,

I mentally projected at the back of his head, as if that was at all likely to resolve the situation.

Drinking just enough to tilt the room, pretending to be absorbed in my dry British comedies that always put me to sleep, lying on the floor, pillow tucked neatly beneath my head, blankets wrapped protectively around me, I wondered if he was writing his latest chapter, playing a game, surfing the net, or watching one of his computer porns. I even took the time to prioritize which of the above would bother me the least in the fact that it had taken priority over finishing our heated conversation. Inevitably I fell asleep, assured in my mind that I would wake just as angry as I was when I fell asleep, and a silent glare would be the first thing he'd get from me come morning. I never have been able to sleep things off.

Somewhere in my alcohol induced, hazy-dream-darkness it registers that someone is moving me. My sleep fogged brain deduces that he must be wanting to lie down and I'm in the middle of the bed. Barely conscious I attempt to move in the direction I seem to be being pushed in. Hands grip my legs tightly and force me onto my back.

What the hell? Can't I sleep here?

My brain struggles to grip reality, but remains solidly entrenched in that impossible-in-between place where I know I'm asleep and wanting to be awake.

Shit! Freezing cold! Where are the blankets?

Air conditioning from the vent pours over me, reminding me that I was naked when I curled up under my cozy comforter to watch tv. Reaching through the darkness I finally manage, for an instant, to open my eyes, vision still a bit blurred.

The lamp on his desk is off.

That's right. I feel asleep watching tv on the floor.

By the light of the television I can see him kneeling between my legs.

What the hell? Where's my blanket?

Groping around the floor, finally finding the blanket I try to pull it back over myself, only to have it pulled away from me again.

Still angry, I try to move away, but in my sleep muddled daze it must look more like surrender. Before I can manage to wake enough to make a sensible protest to being in the cold air in the middle of the night, warm hands slid up my legs, and wet writhing heat envelopes my sex.

Stunned to thoughtlessness, the only sound I can hear is a soft needy moan escaping with my breath. His tongue deftly circles my clit and dives into me. These are the times I truly believe he reads my mind and knows my soul; at least the more depraved portions of it.

Semi-conscious and pinned down, the cold air vent pouring arctic onto my body intensifies his heat. I lose track of everything except the way the cold and hot feel: his hands, his mouth, his fingers, his tongue. I have no idea how long I lay there moaning, breathing, being sucked and licked. I teeter on the edge of feeling so good and tired that I nearly fall back to sleep in a blanket of warm lust and trying to drag my brain into the moment enough to do something, anything other than lie there and appreciate his unique talent.

By body responds on its own, and I'm helpless in my alcohol aided exhaustion. A hand leaves my leg, repositions me, and tilts my hips a bit more. A finger probes gently at my other entrance while his tongue deftly teases my clit. He usually resorts to that trigger when he either wants a really intense reaction out of me or he wants a really quick reaction out of me.

I must be taking too long to come. Serves him right for pissing me off and then wanting to play. Why was I pissed again?

He knows my triggers better than I do. It frightens me sometimes, the way his touch moves me. It's almost religious, the uncertainty, the awe, the need, the intensity. His finger slides inside me. I don't know what he's doing any longer, but I willingly surrender myself to him. Suddenly, no warning, no build up, just suddenly my body explodes: pulsing, undulating, tingling rolling from my sex through my stomach and my legs and my chest and my arms. No thinking, no breathing, nothing, but his tongue and his fingers and us.

Grabbing my hips, he pulls my throbbing pussy to his mouth, sucking and licking, plunging his tongue into me. Refusing to let me go, pushing me farther than I believe I can handle. It's almost over, except for his finger. He moves it a little, pulling it out slowly, agonizingly. Only when I think that any more pleasure would be pain, it's done. I lie there amazed and spent, too far gone to do anything save stare into the darkness of the room, speechless.

Finally he crawls up next to me. Lying down he wraps me in his arms, my favorite place in all existence to be.

"Hi," he says.

I can hear the smug, amusement in his voice. He knows what he's capable of doing to me and he's proud of it. I smile into the dark. Shadows dancing in the light of the flashing tv screen. I realize that the show I was watching is playing again. "Hi."

"You wanna sleep out here or do you want to go into the bedroom?"

Rolling onto my back, twisting in his arms, I look up into his face. There's a kind of hopeful concern about his features. He's wondering if I'm still mad or if we're done arguing now. "It doesn't matter," I say softly, run a caressing hand along his cheek, and draw his mouth to mine for a lingering kiss. I can taste myself on his lips and tongue.

I don't remember what the fight was about anyway.