Morning company

I look down at him, running my hands the length of his body, stopping briefly at his midsection to dance my fingers in lazy circles across his belly.

"You're the most beautiful man," I say. And he is.

He's the color of the walnut armoire I admired in that one hotel room in New Orleans. I'm the shade of the lone ivory teacup we found on its top shelf.

Our fucking is...powerful...I've forgotten how virile he is. His strength makes me whimper.

We collapse onto rumpled gray sheets and tell each other good morning.