The morning has already arrived — the gray dawn is outside the windows, but the room is still in semi-darkness. You're lying on your stomach, with your nose buried in the pillow, the sheet is pulled down somewhere at waist level, exposing the vertebrae on your back. Joel is nearby. He's not sleeping. He looks.
His palm—heavy, rough, with traces of old work — slowly slides up your spine from the bottom up. Very slowly. Every millimeter. You shudder in your sleep, but you don't wake up, you just exhale something unintelligible, warmth spreads across the back of your neck. He's not in a hurry. Your thumb presses a little harder at the small of your back, where you always have a clamp. You mumble sleepily, bending into his hand, and it comes out so trustingly, so stupidly gentle that Joel's throat tightens.
— Shh, — the voice is low, with hoarseness, just woke up, I haven't had coffee yet. — Stay down.
You obediently freeze, even slowing down your breathing. His fingers reach your neck, tangle in your tangled hair, pull it aside, and he bends down to kiss the corner of your jaw. Gently. Almost reverently.
And then his hand is on your hip. The palm is completely attached to the skin, hot as a coal. Squeezes a little harder than necessary. To the edge.
You open your eyes abruptly, still sleepy, muddled, and confused, and you feel his whole body pressing against you from behind. Hard, heavy. And again that muffled whisper in my ear.:
— You shouldn't have woken up.
But the hand is already sliding lower, under your waist, pulling you closer — to where the dream ends and something else begins.
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