Crash
I wake up curled around warm softness. Kelly's asleep, faced away from me, tucked into my stomach, pressed against me even in her sleep. My arm is wrapped around her waist and I shift it to cup a breast.
She doesn't wake up, but she stirs, pushing her bottom into my thighs until I'm fighting not to lift her leg and push into her. But she's not even awake. And she was already sore last night.
Resolved to leave her alone, I concentrate on the softness of her skin and her trust. But having that softness so close is tempting, so I make myself think about recording contracts, album releases, tours, and lyrics. Anything to get my mind off Kelly's nakedness.
I've never felt more content. The early morning light is a pink blush that washes her naked shoulder, her neck, her hair splayed out on the pillow, the sweep of the blankets down her waist, then up again over her hips. The image becomes a melody in my head follows the gentle up and down of her shape.
