It was the streetlights: copper-tinged and wholly beautiful in some obscene way, their harsh light invading the blackest evening, infiltrating the quiet solace of our bedroom, painting your skin in rustic orange hues. God, you're beautiful.
It was the streetlights. I couldn't help but smirk at the glimmer in your eye, so confident. The contest: who needs who more, who inspires the greater lust. Dueling, pawing, mawing, gasping, the artificial glow had tapped into our most basic craving. Wanton, raw, immediate--sex like that should last five minutes. Somehow, it endured; each supposed climax only the start of something stronger. I've never wanted you so badly.
Hours later the deep night turned shallow, the new dawn washing out the copper. You collapsed against me, heaving until you realized we'd both long since calmed. Our lovemaking evolved into sweet sleep.
Though my eyes have yet to open, I can tell it is midmorning. Lying still, I heard the downstairs neighbor's shower. Twice. The birds have all stopped chirping and the day's early purples and blues have now turned a yellowish white. Catching a deep breath in my throat, I arch my back in a feline stretch and hold. Moments later, I exhale a growl and wriggle a bit against the mattress. Definitely midmorning.
My sighs get louder. I am hoping to disturb your sleep. I am ticking through all of the things I should be doing on this Saturday morning. I am mentally dismissing them, one by one. As I feel you grow firm, your body hard behind mine, I know my plan is working. You are awake.
Then, your mouth against my ear, teasing me with warm, humid breath. You whisper. "Motivate me to move and I'll give you a reason to stay in bed." Suddenly we're right back to last night, and though it's broad daylight I can't help but think about streetlights.
A gift, from Scribe, who requested something sexy. | 
