I was dreaming of spring. The wet-asphalt and vernal dew-on-dogwood funk that only means spring in the city. The early morning cry of Canada geese and the first stirrings of traffic rising like steam from the street below.
Blue and I tangled under my down comforter on the balcony, slowing our hearts as the sun rises, sparkling through the highrises on its dawn tread from the harbor’s vanishing point.
His fingertip traces a lazy path up the softness of my inner thigh. His skin of his chest and stomach is warm against my back, the damp ghost of our lovemaking between us where his now-soft cock rests. I sigh into him, fresh arousal welling up as his hand approaches the crease of my thigh.
I reach down to guide his discovery, and wake with a start. Where I dreamed of Blue’s touch, there is still a tickle. On my fingernail is one of the endless ladybugs that have infested the rooms in these last cold weeks of lingering winter weather. I am in the mahogany sleigh bed in the cabin, and the man curved around me like a promise is not Blue.
“Buenos días, preciosa.” Angel’s voice is husky, his seawater eyes unfocused without his coppery wire-frame glasses.
The beetle climbs my finger to the knuckle before I fling it off, color flaming my cheeks when I realize the wetness between my thighs is real.
I will have to call an exterminator.
Another share with Trifecta. Their prompt this week was to use the third definition of “color” in 33-333 words.