Lights are dimmed. The room is silent except for the low crackle of the old fireplace.
She sits on the edge of the couch, knees bent, feet flat on the cushion, wrapped in her favorite black kimono silk robe, naked beneath it, entirely free. Her book rests open in her hands, her attention fully inside her body, the way it is every night. Cool air moves beneath the robe, slipping against the damp heat between her legs. Her lips are slightly parted—not relaxed, not passive—as if already prepared to receive.
The old floor creaks. The sound reaches her ear, then comes closer, slow and deliberate. She senses his grounding presence, the kind she would recognize anywhere. Her breathing changes—deeper, just slightly quicker.
She knows it is him. She feels altered, and yet profoundly safe. She does not turn around.
His presence settles behind her, unhurried. The room seems to contract around them, as if it knows what is about to happen and makes space for it.
He does not touch her yet.
He stays there, close enough that she feels the warmth of him without contact. The space between their bodies tightens. Her breath slows, then stutters, as if her body is already responding to something that has not happened.
He takes her in.
Not with his hands — with his attention. The way she is held there, hips relaxed, thighs parted, the faint glimpse of her lips beneath the robe. Her skin, lightly oiled, glows unevenly in the firelight. She feels herself being seen before she is touched.
He approaches and settles behind her, lowering himself against the couch, her back resting into his chest. When his body closes the space behind her, she does not resist.
Something ancient loosens inside her. The need to decide anything evaporates.
Her head tilts back. Instinctively. As if her body reaches before she does.
Her throat opens, her neck offered.
Relief spreads through her. Release.
A quiet, delicious softening.
His lips meet the curve of her neck. Slow. Certain. The contact sends a shiver through her, sharp enough to steal her breath.
His hand settles at her ribs, then closes around her breast, firm, grounding. She exhales into it. The sensation pulls her downward, inward, until thought thins and sensation takes over. He knows where to touch her. His hands do not explore; they claim.
His other hand wraps around her waist, then slides down the length of her body—over her hip, to her vulva—meeting her lips, already soft and open, caressing them like something precious.
He touches her there, softly at first, as if listening. Her lips part further, her breath catching, heat rising faster now. He lingers there, tracing slow, deliberate circles, learning the shape of her response before going any further. His warm fingers finally slip inside her, slow and deliberate, igniting a sudden heat. Her body feels suddenly unburdened, as if gravity has loosened its hold entirely. Thoughts, sensations, even time itself grow lighter.
She feels the fullness of him at her back, holding her in place as she floats inside herself.
When his mouth returns to her neck, something inside her opens further. A pull she cannot quite name, only feel.
She wants more of him, but not just his hands, not just his body. She wants the way he eases something deep within her.
But she does not ask for more.
She doesn’t need to.
Her body already has.
Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be.
The fire continues to crackle. His breath lingers against her skin.
This is the version of herself she forgets exists until moments like this remind her. Even after the fire settles into embers, her body remembers.
And she knows she will carry that remembrance with her, long after he is gone.
