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.
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 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.
You snuggle in against me.
I look down.
You look up.
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.