Does it smell masculine and vaguely like your favourite apple perfume you only wear for him? Like sweat and tears? Does it feel like the lightening riding the storm, charging the room? Like hands that can't decide if they want to be sensual or pin you down? Does it look like a smirk and an open door with a clock flashing dangerously close to being much to late to start?
The Chief and I have been playing around with the idea of the first big fight. And the blissfully underrated magic that can be makeup sex. Or makeup sexually related activities. Whatever. Makeup sex just sounds better.
Interestingly I think we had our first... not exactly fight, but clash of very, very, very high charged emotions. More than once throughout the evening. Which leaves you just as emotionally drained and tired as a real fight, with all the after glowy affects of making things better-ish. Without the screaming and yelling and potential for real damage. Mind you, sneaky things like this can be equally devastating, don't like quite words confuse you into thinking things aren't out of place, because they probably are, its just so subtle you don't see it yet.
Anyway, after his strict curfew had once again been put into place he was helping me relocate my blankets and such from the living room and back to the bedroom. Hands on hips he slowly begins making an offer I really should be refusing in favour of not pushing my luck and for the sake of my sanity for the week. Rocking hips, pushing me further and further and further up the bed. People are home, the door is WIDE open and suddenly my shy timid Chief is no longer any of those things, but rather a dangerous risk taker, willing to face trouble and retribution in favour of just a taste of trouble, just a feel of something that has the potential for danger.
Now don't mistake me for some weak willed child. I have a ridiculously inappropriate understanding of when and how will power should be used. Protesting the open door, the late night, the hands on hips, and stomach, and shoulders, and suddenly exposed skin... Now what exactly I was protesting at this point is completely up for debate. Maybe I was protesting the potential for stopping. Maybe I was trying to behave myself and protesting the starting. Either way protests were made in soft whispers in the darkened room.
Finding myself slid higher up the bed than previously intended and wearing less than anticipated I think I was shocked into silence by this very intriguing newly kinky and confident take charge version of my previously shy Chief. And because of all these sparkly and shiny new traits that I'm discovering I was not shocked into silence for very long. Keeping in mind that the door is still WIDE open whimpers and moans breathed into blankets and hands tightly clinging to satin sheets, heels digging into shoulders and forgetting temporarily that there is a real world where he will need to return to make bedtime for his real job in the morning.
Not so slowly, but ever so surely trying to keep quite becomes just trying to find a breath and calm a racing heart. Find legs that remember how to walk him to the door without swooning. A body still quivering with the aftershocks of the not quite makeup, not quite sex after a not quite fight.
Smelling of sweat and Him and my favourite apple perfume, sliding between the covers still quivering at the thought of his touch I think I know the form that my trouble comes in...
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