I had told her a lie.

“No…, it’s alright,” I said, a little out of breath myself. “It’s late,” I was rationalizing. “And we’re tired,” it’s not me, it’s not you, it’s us. But the truth was that it wasn’t alright. That, by now, she should want it as much as I do. That, by now, she should know that she doesn’t need to ask. That, by now, she should have let her hand drift down my thigh, linger for a moment, and then grasp firmly.

I had fallen on the bed, trying my best (but failing) at supporting myself without smearing my right hand on the freshly-washed sheets; the index, middle, and ring fingers coated in her slick, white, now-hardening cream. My fingers quickly grew stiff in the cool air as I pulled them out of her tight, still-wet, pulsating pussy, the bright and hot sparks of her orgasm now slowly echoing into silence. Our lips disengaged. Our tongues detangled. Our bodies detached. She breathed heavily, sucking in fresh air.

My hand was moving furiously. I had let my fingers curl up, and they rubbed up against her insides. They found the fleshysoftfirmroughsmooth contours of her pussy. Her hand at her crotch, her fingers pressing and making circles around her protruding clit. The fingertips glossy with her juices. And it had only intensified. Our motions were faster, sharper, stronger than when we first started.

The quick pull of her panties off her ankles, flung off to the far corner of the bed. They were damp, warm, and easily slid down her legs. The first touches were beneath her waistband, the gentle pressure of my hand moving up the soft skin of her thighs. Our bodies pressing into each other, my hands exploring, searching, her nipples, breasts, stomach, arms, hands victims of my touch, of my tongue, of my lips. My fingers brushing away the hairs from her face and our mouths finding each other in the warm embrace.

Our eyes met. Lying in bed, the television was almost inaudible, the pictures flashing the room in shades of red, green, and blue. Sunday nights were lazy, slow, the two of us denying the fact that Mondays lurked and lay in wait, eager to devour the few precious hours of sleep. And the weekend was over.