on this winter's night with you

The weather forecast hadn’t called for it.

Granted that’s no surprise around here.

You tell me that you’ve lost your snow tolerance, as I softly brush some out of your hair.

I remove your coat and hang it over the back of a chair that doesn’t really match the decor, but has sentimental meaning that is fading too quickly. Like the upholstery.

I turn back to find you rubbing your arms. Dark nail polish is just a blur.

I help you. My hands on yours.

It’s not working fast enough, so I pull you into a big hug.

You smush your cold nose into my chest. You whisper that it means that you’re a healthy puppy.

I squeeze you.

I let out a “Man, I adore you” sighmoan and rock us gently.

I look down and see snow caked on the bottom of your pants. (Or some kind of lower body covering with a name that involves the bastardization of “leggings.”)

You look down to see what I’m noticing.

You smile as you shake your head. Dimples form on your rosy cheeks.

I swoon.

A theme of the night.

A theme of every night.

Manly swoons. Of course.

I kneel in front of you.

I slowly run my hands down your sides, to your hips. Then I slide them, with fingers tucked inside the top of your pants, over to the middle.

I unbutton.

I unzip.

I exhale.

Long. Low.

I pull your pants down.

You put your hand on my shoulder as you step out of them.

I run my hands up the back of your legs as I stand.

Just my finger tips, really.

They come to rest on your grey underwear-(with a little pink bow!) clad bum.

You laugh. But not in protest.

I squeeze.

You snuggle in against me.

I look down.

You look up.

We stop.

Great art has been created about less.

I kiss your forehead.

You close your eyes.

I kiss one cheek.

Then the other.

I move my right hand to your side.

Then to your stomach.

I slide it up the front of your body.

Slowing as I caress up and over your breasts.

Your exhale sounds like “baaaabe.”

I run the backs of my fingers slowly up the side of your neck.

I barely touch your cheek with my open hand.

Chills begin again, even as your body warms.

I bend two fingers over your bottom lip.

I pull your face towards me a little as I lean in.

Your nails dig in my back a bit.

You lick my fingers. Teasing.

I lean in more.

I barely move my fingers out of the way of the kiss.

I lift you up.

You wrap your legs.

I carry you by a window overlooking snow falling on a quiet street.


Save for two sets of vastly different-sized foot prints heading home.

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