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I flip to my side resting my head in my hands, I can't help but reach out and touch your sleepy face. I let my hand trace down your nose to the tip of it, poking you slightly, making myself smile, wondering if I am waking you up. I let my finger trace the outline of your lips, you suddenly take my finger into mouth, sucking on it for a bit before releasing, while opening one eye at me. I can't help but smile at you. "Hey you. Did I wake you?" I ask innocently. Your eyes darken as they gaze into mine. "Woman, you know damn well that you did." Letting my eyes hold your gaze as I lower my face to yours letting our lips meet in a soft, sensual kiss that sends a jolt throughout my entire body. I moan softly into your lips as the kiss naturally deepens. Your arms wrap around me pulling me over on top of you. My lips parting slightly as our tongues meet and dance and mingle, your hands sliding up and down my still naked back, making my skin tingle with each and every touch. Feeling the. But the melted cubes are melded together; they stay at the bottom of my glass until I give it a few hard shakes. For years I've performed a ritual with every woman I've made love to. With Cynthia, as with the rest, I did it unthinkingly, almost religiously, while never sure of its meaning. Cynthia was the love of my life in senior year at Emory. She had stellar SAT scores ("Tests – they're so inconsequential!") and was captain of the school's fencing team ("Sometimes a foil is just a foil," she used to say). The first time I saw her, she was dueling an invisible opponent in the library parking lot, gracefully twirling her foil and lunging ahead like a crazed ballerina. A few weeks later, we were naked in bed, legs brushing idly against one another. Passion was three hours over – or was it about to begin? Kissing her lips lightly, I nudge her to lie on her stomach, which she does without opening her eyes. I want her; I savor her beauty as the tips of my fingers graze over her.
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