All movement ceases as he hovers above me, his hands on either side of my head. “Make love,” he repeats as he lowers, resting his weight down on his elbows. His hands grace my face, and he kisses me. Tongues move then he licks the corner of my mouth, leaving me wanting more, even though I was the one who wanted to slow down. His body is hard, his muscles working above me while making love to me. With his lips against my cheek, he whispers, “Every time we’re together we create love.”
His words are lyrics he sings to my soul.
“What are you smiling about?” he asks, his own playful smile coming out as he stills.
“This. Life. We’re married. Everything.”
“It’s pretty great, huh?”
“More than great. Amazing.”
With a tilt of his head, he starts moving again while watching our connection, taking his time until we’re both satisfied.
Except for an excursion to the tattoo parlor, we spend the next day watching movies in bed. It’s a perfect day.
As the sun sets on our last night here, I walk to the bedroom window, the drapes wide open. A golden light fills the room, I slowly undress, slipping my lingerie off. He watches me. It makes me feel sexy. He makes me feel loved.
“Come over here,” he says, his arm behind his head as he lays shirtless on the bed. Moving to the end of the mattress, I kneel between his legs, leaning forward. With my tongue, I leave a trail, tasting him, enjoying what I see. I pull his boxer briefs down, just a little, enough to tease and kiss him once, twice, and again from his hip to his tip, then cover him back up.
His hand grabs my wrist as I start to slide down, stopping me. When I look up, he says, “I want you.”
“You want me… how?” I ask, keeping my tone seductive like his. I want to hear him say it. I want him at my mercy.
“I want your mouth on me.”
“You, Sir, are a very dirty boy. You know that?”
“I assure you I’m no boy. Why don’t you take those boxers all the way off this time and let me prove it to you.”
Our eyes hold the stare, and then I smile. “With pleasure.”
He proves it twice before we both need a nap.
When I open my eyes, it’s dark. I’m on my side facing the window. I roll over to find Dalton, but he’s not in bed. I sit up and look around the room. Music comes from the living room. Tiptoeing to the door, I find Dalton on the couch holding his guitar. He has a pencil in his mouth as he stares at the paper in front of him and strums lightly. I watch him for a minute without him knowing, loving the sight of him writing music, playing, healing. His eyes go wide and he takes the pencil from his mouth then jots something down on the paper in front of him. He looks satisfied… happy. It’s good to see.
“Hi,” he says, looking my way. “Good nap?”
I nod, giving him a smile. “What are you doing?”
Looking down briefly, he appears shy, something I’m not used to seeing on him. “I was lying in bed, next to you, watching you,” he says. “You used to be more restless when you slept… anyway, a melody came to me, so I got up and started writing. I’m trying to get it down before it disappears.”
“I love that.” I look at the time. Almost eight-thirty. “We slept a long time, or at least I did.”
“You hungry?”
“I want you to write.”
“I’m almost done,” he says, thoughtful. “We can go out or order in. Your choice.”
“I’m thinking in. I’m gonna take a bath.”
He stands just before I turn, and says, “Thank you, Holliday.”
Leaning against the doorframe, I tilt my head, and ask, “For what?”
“For saying yes.”
“Thanks for asking.”
“For being my inspiration.”
“I always wanted to be someone’s muse,” I say lightheartedly.
“You’ve always been in here,” he says, patting his chest over his heart. “We just hadn’t met yet.”
Dalton sits down, getting back to his songwriting, not realizing how much he’s touched my soul. I savor his words and go take a bath.
In the middle of the night I find Dalton asleep on the couch, a beam of moonlight slipping in and residing across his body. For a moment in time, I forget about demons and darkness. Seeing him like this, with his guitar laying across his chest, all I see is goodness—an angel in his own right. Even if he never sees himself that way, I do.
His hand hangs over the edge, the pencil on the floor beneath it. Walking over, I kneel down. Pressing my lips to his forehead, I grab the guitar by the neck then whisper, “Dalton, come to bed.”