I watch her from where I pause as I enter the room. The way the late afternoon sun slants across her back, catching in the fine hairs along her shoulders. She is washing dishes at the sink, the slow, deliberate movement of her hands hypnotic. I step forward, noiselessly, and slide my arms around her waist. She does not startle. She has always known when I am near.

"The water's warm," she murmurs, leaning back against me.

"Mm," I answer, pressing my lips to the damp curve of her neck. She smells of soap and oranges. I wonder if I will remember this, years from now, when time has softened the edges of things. The way her skin tastes faintly of salt, the way she shifts so that my hands can press lower, firmer.

The water runs, forgotten. Outside, a bird calls, a single, lilting note.

⧫⧫⧫

I flashback to when we first met in the hush of our college library. I had been searching for a book on maritime history; she had been shelving returns, a loose cardigan slipping from her shoulder. She glanced up, caught my eye, and, after a second that lingered just long enough to matter, she smiled. I knew then, in the quiet certainty that so rarely accompanies love, that I would follow that smile wherever it led.

Later, I would trace my fingers over her collarbone and whisper, "You knew."

And without hesitation, she would answer, "Of course I knew."

⧫⧫⧫

I pull at the hem of her sundress, bunching it in my palm as I reveal more of her legs. She shifts again, pressing her firm ass to dig into my swelling crotch and I wonder at the ease of it, how my body recognizes hers, how her breath moves in time with mine. Synergy. Perfection in that moment. 

With an arch she reaches back, hand still wet, and runs it through my hair. "Tell me something true," she says, her voice soft.

I consider. "I love the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."

In the faint reflection of the window, I catch the flicker of her smile. "And how is that?" she asks.

"Like I am a book you've read a thousand times, and still, somehow, I surprise you."

She laughs then, and I turn her head to swallow the sound with a kiss, pulling her against me, the press of her body a familiar ache.

"We could stay here, just like this, forever," she says, breaking the kiss and tipping her head to look at me. "Just like this."

But I know better. The world does not allow such things. And yet, I nod. "Forever."

I trace the salt from her skin with my tongue, press my hands to the warmth of her back, lose myself in the quiet pull of her breath. And in this moment, at least, forever feels possible.

We move slowly, deliberately, as if time has given us permission to linger. My fingers trace the line of her spine, slipping beneath the loose fabric of her dress, coaxing her toward me. The sink presses into her hips, the cool porcelain a contrast to the heat of our skin. Her breath quickens, her fingers curling against my arm as I lift her slightly, turning her to face me. I see the hunger in her eyes, the silent plea. 

She wraps her legs around my waist, and I carry her to the wooden table, setting her down among forgotten dishes, the scent of arousal thickening the air. We move in a rhythm older than words, mouths seeking, hands learning, fumbling to remove barriers. 

I hook my pants and boxers pushing them down around my ankles and step out, manhood rigid and swaying at full attention. She finds it, like she always does, effortless, softly cradling me as if I were something precious. 

“God, I love your cock,” she coos, pulls on it, presses my head to the damp spot soaking through her flowery panties. I push in, dimpling the material, tightening it to her clit. 

In a fluid motion, I slip back, slide my hand down her belly to pull the impediment to the side then thrust into her deeply. Forcefully. Lovingly. 

The table screeches as it slides from the unity of our weight, our tempo. I see her hands grip the edge to brace against my push, to roll her hips so my head drags against her sensitivity. 

Her dress pools around her, a soft, crumpled offering. I follow the curve of her throat with my lips, tasting the delicate pulse that beats there. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, urging me on. The world outside fades, the bird's song a distant echo. There is only the warmth of her skin, the soft gasp of her breath, the urgent press of her body against mine.

I lift her, my hands sliding beneath her thighs, and she wraps her legs tighter, a silent command. The air crackles with unspoken desires, the room now thick with the scent of our mingled heat. I lower her completely down onto the table, the cool wood a reminder of the burning intensity between us. The forgotten dinner setting becomes a landscape of our passion, a testament to the moment.

Her eyes, dark and dilated, hold mine captive. There is a silent conversation passing between us, a language spoken in the language of touch and breath. I trace the line of her jaw, my thumb brushing against her swollen lips. The world narrows, focusing on the single point of contact, the base of my cock nestled perfectly on her clit, the electric charge that arcs between us. The only sound is the soft, ragged rhythm of our breathing, a symphony of orgasmic longing.

We linger in the synchronicity of our hearts, of our union. I lean in, pressing her head to the side, lowering my lips to her earlobe, and whisper, “Forever.”