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Weekend mornings are quiet.
Long and dream-dyed.
The time stretches like taffy, snaps into nothingness, and Mon loves it. The slowing down of everything in the big, airy quiet of their house—loves the them of it, the theirs. Plural possessives.
Her feet make the sound of barely anything on the floor as she shuffles around in a towel after her shower—trying not to wake Sam up, but not really trying that hard at all. She’s probably not sleeping that heavily anyway. Sam never really learnt how to sleep in, and they wake up at the same time these days, weirdly in tune (codependent, Yuki says. Last week Sam had left for an early meeting without waking her up, and it had ruined Mon’s whole day).
Mon’s drying her hair when the bedsheets rustle behind her. Sam makes a sound that bursts in her chest, a sort of sniffle, a breath against the pillow. The air changes as Mon waits and waits and waits to be noticed first thing in the morning, the privilege and pleasure of being with Sam in their bedroom—awake and sleepy together. The shared pocket of time specific to long weekend mornings.
She steals glances over her shoulder as Sam starts moving. The top of her head, hair messy, and then the point of her elbow, rubbing a hand over her face. Stretching. Grumbling, making her little noises. Mon turns around. “Goodmorning, darling.” She says, and it sounds like I love you, because what’s what it is, and Sam knows it, too, because she looks up and over the duvet and smiles at Mon. Blinking her tired eyes. Mon loves her.
“Come back to bed.” Sam says, and the rasp of her voice crawls all the way down Mon’s spine. She’s brave about it, though, puttering around as if she’s looking for something in their spotless bedroom—kept spotless by the maid’s paycheck and Sam’s hand and every ounce of Mon’s very best efforts.
“I have to get ready,” she says, “I’m meeting up with Yuki, remember?” Sam flops back into the sheets with a groan, and even that: the petulance, the whiny annoyance. It does something. The rudeness of it, Sam’s entitlement. It’s a little nice, knowing how easy it is for Mon to make or break Lady Sam’s days.
Sam pulls the duvet off of her, and it doesn’t look like seduction, but the intent barely matters these days—Mon really hasn’t grown that much from her teenage years spent looking at posters of Sam’s face, getting worked up over daydreams. Sam now is still as darkeyed and dreamy, but now Mon knows how much of a baby she really is, and she’s wearing one of Mon’s cotton night gowns—pale pink and threadbare, but Mon’s kept it because it’s silk soft after too many washes. It’s small even on her, and way too short on Sam, and Mon’s breathlessness is equal parts arousal and tender little feelings at Sam in her clothes. Sam’s pouting, too, decidedly not sexy-on-purpose but—well. “I can’t believe you arranged an outing on my day off. Does Yuki not want you to spend time with your wife?” Mon swallows and scrubs the vaseline off her teeth where she’s been biting her lip. It’s terrible, being looked at and knowing you can’t hide anything. Or, not terrible—lovely to the point where it squirms around in her stomach with an excitement she barely knows what to do with.
Sam keeps watching her. Like she always does. Like Mon is endlessly interesting and always worthy of further analysis, and Sam just hasn’t figured all of her out yet. Underneath the pout and the sleepy eyes there’s heat, and unasked questions, and Mon has to smile. She stands at the foot of their bed. Picks at the hem of the towel. Drawing Sam’s eyes like a light.
“You want something?”
Sam sighs like everything is a hassle. She practices communication like pulling teeth, but Mon’s very proud of her. “I want you to take your towel off,” she says, “and then I want you to come lie down, and then I want you to spread your legs—”
A zing of heat and pleased embarrassment. “Sam, shush.” She laughs, flushed like there’s someone who might overhear. Sam leans up on her elbows, and one strap of the nightie slips down her round shoulder. She’s so pretty.
“First I have to say what I want, and then I’m not allowed to. You’re so demanding, I never know what to do.” She reaches a hand out. “Come here, please.” Mon joins her in the bed. In their body-warm bed, on her knees next to Sam who is still sleep-mussed, barely awake and still wanting her. She must’ve dreamt something nice. Sam kisses her knuckles, and Mon ducks down to kiss her mouth—it’s been too long, both of them awake and not kissing. Sam is smiling when she pulls away.
“Take off your towel.” She wriggles further up the bed. Mon laughs.
“It’s weird.” She puts a hand on the hem of it and one on the knot over her chest. “I’ll be the only one naked.”
Sam doesn’t call her out on her juvenile goading. She gives in. Gives in like she always does to Mon, gives in and gives in and then just gives until Mon struggles to hold all of it in her hands. Mon watches as Sam pulls at the hem of her nightie, revealing nothing but her skin, up and up and up until she’s completely naked. Keeps watching when Sam lies back against the pillows, and puts a hand on Mon’s, over her thigh, petting. There’s pink marks on her hip from folds in the fabric. She looks soft, pretty and pink and brown. Her thighs rub together, and she hitches one leg up to hide maybe, coy, from Mon’s eyes, but she can still see enough of everything that she can feel herself get wet. The soft white of her inner thighs (that Mon knows gets darker the higher up you go between her legs, light honey-brown and a rose-pink that makes her mouth water), the fan of hair, the softness of her belly and the curve of her breasts, moving as she breathes—all her richness, her oil paint bright body. Sam’s biting her lip, expectant. She scratches a nail against Mon’s knee, and she’s so sweet and so sexy, her clumsy-perfect, effortless seduction.
Mon says “okay” and pulls off her towel, and even though Sam laughs at her she can’t be self conscious about it, because both of them are eager: falling into each other, impatient with their touching. She can’t imagine not wanting Sam. Can’t imagine living without the sweet itch of Sam’s eyes following her—inappropriate, sometimes, uncaring of an audience.
She settles over Sam’s warm body, happy-shaking when Sam spreads her legs and lets her press their hips together, one-body close. She kisses her—licks against her tongue, humming. The wetness of their mouths start fires. She feels dampness against her belly.
“Did you dream about me?” She whispers. Rubbing, writhing—uncoordinated and not really meant to do anything, but Sam’s eyes are fluttering anyway, and pleasure’s tightening in Mon’s stomach already.
“Stupid question.” Sam says. Her hands crawl up and down Mon’s back. Mindless, Mon thinks. Touching just to touch, sending shivers all over. “I always do.”
Mon pouts and Sam bites her lower lip. “You woke up hungry?” Kissing the sharp sleep out of Sam’s mouth, smearing the taste of toothpaste and chapstick in between them. Pink, plush mouth. “Poor puppy.” Her fingers drift over Sam’s body, down her stomach, barely touching, because she’s already halfway there, so why not—why waste time. Mon is eager, and Sam is wanting.
Sam nods, hurried, because it gets to her a little, that name. Kissing Mon like she wants to go inside her entirely, pulling at her arms. “Yeah, so you should— you should let me eat—”
“Me first.” Mon says. A bite to the tip of her nose. “Me first, Cham-Cham, okay?”
Sam squirms. Stalling kisses and sighing like it’s an inconvenience. “Yeah, okay.”
She’s wet , not just halfway there. All the way there, all over, and Mon rubs it into her skin, the spilled over juice of her, dips the tips of her fingers inside—just so—and pulls them out, smearing. Soft like nothing else, gasping into Mon’s mouth—wet there, too, when she forgets to kiss back and just moans instead. Mon rearranges, falls to the side to straddle Sam’s thigh so she can move her arm better, leaning over Sam, licking into her mouth.
“Touch me.” Sam says, in between kisses, and she’s shivering—so tense, body waiting for the pleasure like a punch—and Mon smiles into her pouting mouth.
“I am,” she says. Fingers spread, rubbing over, around. Playing, teasing, barely touching.
Sam’s nails are sharp in her shoulder. “Properly.” She’s so lovely when she’s demanding—lovely when she’s soft, honest about all her neediness. But good when she’s mean too.
“Call me your darling, and I’ll—”
“Darling,” Sam says, giving in again, turning her dark eyes to Mon’s mouth, “my darling, touch your wife properly—” Mon fits her mouth over Sam’s and two fingers over her clit, swallowing the moan she gets. Sam’s legs shake and spread, and Mon grinds down, feeling the pleasure double ended, like the two of them share a system of nerves. Sam opens up on two fingers, but by the way her hips are moving it won’t take long, so Mon just lets her get her hand wet, easing the friction, supple-soft—loud, too, the slick of it, soaking. She kisses Sam’s neck, hips moving at how good it feels to know the little telltales of Sam’s pleasure—the rabbiting of her pulse, the sweat that Mon licks off, her moans buzzing through the skin of her throat. Her twisting body, her face screwed up. Mon has to wonder what the dream was about.
She looks down the lines of Sam’s body—she has to: the hair between her legs is dew-drop wet now, her stomach heaving. The slope of Sam's waist spanning out into her hips, the plush curve of skin by her spread legs makes Mon want to cry, and she grinds down on her thigh harder, Sam’s hand on her waist now, pressing in. She’s sweet and wet under Mon’s fingers, silk-soft, and if they had more time she’d get her mouth on her, see her red-pink-purples up close. They sound dirty-good in the quiet of their bedroom—the soft click of their mouths when they kiss, the gasped of shared breaths, moaning, quiet and loud, whenever Mon changes her angle, when Sam flexes her thigh, and then the slick sound of skin, the steady, wet rhythm of it.
Mon feels drunk, and Sam looks it, bright red. “Don’t stop.” She whispers, and Mon ducks down to put her drooling mouth on a faded hickey on Sam’s breast. Sucking the bruised skin in between her teeth. Sam’s hand jumps into her hair and goes so tight Mon knows she’s too close to think properly, and goes where Sam leads her, sucks her nipple into her mouth instead, tongue first, shivering when the sound of her fingers get nastier, wetter, as Sam tenses—whole body locking up, her rising, canting gasps of oh-oh-oh stopping in the middle of a breath. Mon groans, feeling her come against her fingers, muscles tensing, moving through the cramps because Sam gets so wet and she smells so good, the rhythm of it all like a heartbeat as Sam rides it out, hand flexing in Mon’s hair. A perfect pattern.
She slows the circles of her fingers when Sam relaxes into the bed, breathing out a long, shaking sigh. Still touching, though—petting her slick fingers over Sam’s groin as it shakes out of her slowly, pushing the tip of her finger in just to feel, boiling warm and wet. Sam moans softly. Mon kisses her breast, breast bone, the hollow of her throat, the soft skin under her upturned chin. She skates her fingers over Sam’s stomach before getting distracted by the shine of them. Sam meets her eyes when she sucks them clean, unapologetic. The tang of it—piquant, Mon thinks. Musk-sweet, salty, human. She wonders if Sam can feel her getting wetter on her thigh, watching her suck her slick of her fingers. Sexed up, darkeyed. Mon kind of wants her tits in her mouth again, but Sam pulls her down into a kiss when she’s done. “You have a lot of nerve,” she says, still breathing heavily, “calling me puppy.”
Mon kisses her blushing cheekbone and the corner of her mouth—kisses it again when it lifts up into that smile that makes her face all soft. Bites the apple of her cheek to make Sam squawk. “Still hungry?” She asks.
She almost misses the eye roll before she’s flipped onto her back.
It’s always so much, Sam looking at her like that. Her spread legs, all her exposed wants, her wet honesty, and Sam’s hungry eyes—that she’s used to seeing, frankly, many other places than their bedroom. Sam’s getting on her stomach, bare feet in the air behind her. Her hair falls into her face and she pushes it back twice, eager, irritated, her tongue on her teeth, and Mon loves her so much it makes her feel—full up. Balloons trapped in her chest. “Darling,” she gets out, just to say it. She feels so good, sweet, even as she can feel her pulse between her legs. “I love you.”
Sam looks up at her. Kisses her inner thigh. “I love you.” She says, and looks back down. “I love you too.” Her mouth is warm and wet against her groin. Eyes focused. Mon pauses for a breath and then sighs.
“Sam.”
Sam holds up a finger and rubs her nose against her clit, and down—it comes away shiny. Mon flushes, feels herself —leak. “Quiet honey, I’m having a conversation.”
“Should I be jealous?”
“Maybe you should. She’s very pretty.” Her buzzing voice, a kiss. A real kiss then, on the peak of her mons, and lower then, and lower—Sam’s open mouth. Her wet tongue, a real kiss, one that keeps going, and going, and going—
Mon’s desperately in love with all sides of Sam, but it’s difficult to not prefer this one, now, when she's all white-hot, wet-soft pleasure, when she’s looking at Sam nudge her nose against her clit and lick everything out of her, flushed and gasping—pussy-drunk. She delves her tongue out and up, and Mon chokes, burns with the squirming pleasure of it. Sam holds her hips down when she jerks, and she wants this, always—can’t get enough of the luxurious ecstasy, the slide of Sam’s tongue and how much she wants it. Sam’s hands are tight on her thighs, fingers digging in. She reaches down and tangles hers in Sam’s hair, spine curving up sharply when Sam sucks, tongue working in between her lips and Mon feels her eyes roll back, something lazy and hot and nasty shaking under her skin. Mouths must be made for this, she thinks, delirious, pleasure zinging through her body. Every kind of touch gradually reinvented for the sake of indulgence.
The noises, again, hedonistic against their white walls—spit-sloppy now, and Mon’s guttural moans, bit out through her teeth. Sam sucks her wetness into her mouth—spit slides off her tongue; sharing.
“Sam,” Mon gasps, “Sam, I want to kiss you.” Sam comes immediately, the magnets of their mouths pulling together, dragging her warm, naked skin against Mon’s, twisting together in a kiss—so deep they could be one body, Mon thinks, as Sam’s fingers roll into her and she sucks the taste of herself off of Sam’s tongue. Connected in two places, so sweet it makes her head spin, makes her cry into the kiss when Sam rubs her thumb against her clit, catching on an upstroke that makes their teeth clatter together. Sam moves with the jerk of her hips, pulling Mon’s legs around her waist—letting Mon fuck herself on her fingers, and it builds, all those pleasure points inside and outside of her, Sam playing at her like strings. She leans away then, not far, Mon’s head jerking into the pillow, and it’s so much now, building in her stomach. It’s so difficult to keep her eyes open, to think about anything but Sam’s fingers and everywhere their skin is touching, but through the bright haze she can see Sam’s face, open in arousal, in adoration. Mon feels the tight, red hot stretch of Sam’s ringfinger now, too, and whines, pleasure too big for her body. Too much, and too sweet, bursting under her skin—
“Pretty girl,” Sam says, and Mon comes. Doesn’t hear the rest of Sam’s praise. Flies, floats, it courses through her like a river, every second the best she’s ever felt, unfolding in waves and waves and waves of pleasure. Sam lets her cry into her mouth, too loud, riding it out—every second the best, anew and anew, over again. Three of Sam’s slim fingers and her thumb drawing it out of her. She’s caught by it, everything she feels at Sam’s hands. Glitter in her veins instead of blood.
She feels empty when Sam draws her fingers out. Sam kisses the unhappy sound out of her mouth and keeps her hand between her legs, flat. Warm. They lie still for a moment. The long silence again, taffy-like, sticky-sweet. Mon smacks her lips—crusty with sweat, spit, vaseline, slick. Sam huffs against her throat and finally moves away a little. Their skin makes a sound when they part, dried sweat sticking. They rearrange and come back together, Mon’s head on Sam’s chest, hands entwining, legs tangling, side by side.
Mon hums, settling. Bone-heavy and good. “What was your dream about?” She asks. It feels relevant. Sam kisses her hair. Sniffs, kisses it twice.
“Can’t remember”, she says, “couldn’t top this anyway.” It’s the kind of corny that makes Mon want to roll her eyes, but she can’t laugh and she can’t disagree. She knows from experience that even the best dreams pale in comparison to the real thing. She kisses at the skin she can reach and wrestles the duvet over them as the sweat cools.
She really does have to meet up with Yuki. She has to take another shower too, and she’s definitely going to be late now, but she can’t let go of that candy string silence yet. The shared quiet, listening to both Sam’s heartbeat and her own, willing them to sync up. So she gives in. It’s easy to do, indulging in the pleasures of togetherness. She rubs her face against Sam’s damp skin and wriggles into her arms, feeling her laugh buzz through her chest. The syrup slow pockets of life, found only here, in her and Sam’s bedroom, during the long, quiet weekend mornings.