I roll over in the hazy morning light, heavy drapes holding back the grim drizzle of the rain outside. Your form beside me is slack with sleep, six feet of gentle submission, chin tucked to your chest.

Your collar didn’t make it back to the drawer where it is kept before sleep took you. It sits, majestic, on the nightstand, a reminder of last night’s delicious desires rendered, its liquorice-y leather  gleaming darkly. I gently trace the fading pink stripes that knit a tidy herringbone pattern of passionate destruction down your back. The one broken and bloodied line has scabbed cleanly and my fingertip pauses there; a cartographic memory tour of our mutual and sensual brutalities. My hand crawls to the soft patch of hair on your chest, my lips find your shoulder. Stirring under my stroking your eyelids flutter and your hand covers mine. The corners of your mouth turn up, eyes still closed as you smile. The closeness of our bodies is so stunning I have to catch my breath before my whisper leaves my lips, “Good morning, Darling.”

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