Contentment
BY ERICKA JORDAN
The tips of my fingers ghost over the declarations of my love that have been stamped into the gentle curves of your collarbones. Your skin flushes and murmurs beneath the silken pads.
My nails gently etch every ardent desire to cross my mind into the rosy flesh of your chest. A smile graces my lips as I watch the edges of my being melt seamlessly into your own.
I lean down and press my lips to the remnants of kisses I'd given you in lives past, relishing in the feel of your hand on the small of my back and the deep, euphonious sound of your laughter. Sleep calls for you, and I can see that you're ready to answer.
Your hand dances briefly over the curvature of my frame before it comes to rest on my hip. A gentle squeeze forces a delighted squeal from the confines of my chest, and the surprised jump that accompanies is used to your advantage. In a matter of moments, you are seated comfortably between my thighs. The slightly calloused pads of your fingers find their way beneath the hem of my shirt and trace the purple lacerations gifted to me by the universe.
My own hands find solace atop yours, thumbs smoothing over the flesh as your warmth sinks into my palms. When I pull them away, it is only so that I can cup your face instead. My thumbs resume their caper, this time over the ridges of your cheekbones. "I love you," I whisper, gaze softening. Your answer comes in the form of your hands shifting — one returns to my hip; the other finding purchase on my cheek. I lean into its heat before pressing my mouth to your palm.
A content hum pushes past the swell of your lips as you guide my face toward your own, your eyelids gently blanketing the carob of your eyes. When my kiss finds your lips, I feel my jaw unclench. Years’ worth of tension extends its gratitude to the muscles of my shoulders before taking leave. I exhale gently, a smile declaring my face the perfect place to perch for the evening.
I withdraw, and with bated breath watch as you carefully collect your own. Your lips part and begin to form the words that I've been longing to hear for so long. Finally, the honey of your voice will coat the proclamation of your devotion.
The moment the word "love" slips from your tongue, my eyes open to a room that is far too dark. I am met with nothing more than the sound of my breathing and the ghost of your warmth as I burrow further into sheets stained with your scent.
About the Author
Ericka Jordan is a 19 year old undergrad currently based in Las Cruces, New Mexico. She has a deep passion for writing and is currently working on a small collection of poetry and prose. She is the youngest of seven, a cat mom to one, and a full time dork who loves video games.