Somatic memory and fevered dreams leave my skin aching as I wake, my nerve endings ablaze against the cool morning air, straining for the brush of your fingertips. My right collarbone is tender to the touch, indelibly bruised from the weeks-past force of your forearm pinning my shoulders back even as your fingers so gently held my head, the demand in your gaze at once a vulnerable plea: Look at me.
I close my eyes against the rush of sensation remembrance brings, seeing you above me once again, rippling my honeyed walls soft and strong against the ghost of your penetrating hard, reveling in the trail of cool heat that my hands, becoming yours, imprint upon my flesh.
I feel my temperature rise as I open my eyes to sunless light, reveling in sensual reminiscence.
Look at me.
My body blushes even in the absence of your watchful eye, and I wonder, not for the first time, just exactly how much you see.