The afternoon sun reaches through the windowpane, light-soaked rays stroking their fingertips over my sleep-warmed skin, caressing me through my quilted cocoon, coaxing me slowly awake.
It takes me a while, I think to myself, as I hear his approaching movements against the background sounds of domestic hums; fluffing towels turn in the dryer while floorboards creak under softly padding feet. He kneels beside me where I lay, melted chocolate eyes level with my groggy gaze, and his welcoming smile pulls me out of my drowsy depths.
It takes me a while.
The thought repeats as I complete my climb to consciousness, holding his cheek against my palm and tracing my thumb over his sinner’s lips.
Sometimes, it takes me a while.
To come awake.
To come to realizations.
To come forward.
(To come…)
“I love you,” he says with audible surety, and I smile inwardly with remembrance, knowing how long he waited to hear those words, in return, from me.
As my eyes meet his, I wonder fleetingly to myself, Am I sorry for the wait?
Even knowing the answer is “No.”
(I had to know.)
Sometimes…
It takes me a while.
Source: The Suburban Domme
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