I woke up this morning next to a warm and willing body.
Husband nudged closer and wrapped his arm around me, pulling himself on top. He
painted my lips with gentle, luscious kisses, the kind that arrive in the
morning when, after a night’s repose, everything feels intimate and tempting,
the bed and bedclothes a cocoon of velvet. Husband’s body was a study in contrasts—
supple yet taught against mine, soft but unyielding, tender and aggressive.
I was caressing
his rough, morning-bestubbled cheeks when it happened. It was like a violation.
An attack at the most vulnerable of times. His hand crept around and I tensed
up, drawing my elbows in. He tried to embrace me lovingly, moving his hands
underneath my shoulder, but he couldn’t; he was blocked. He stopped, regrouped,
then tried again. A second time he was blocked. He looked at me quizzically,
his expression saying, Am I doing something
wrong? Why are you refusing my touch? My elbows drew tighter to me, and I
laughed, realizing that my body was acting of its own accord.
“Were you
trying to get the underhook?” I asked.
“What?”
asked my jiu jitsu-clueless Husband.
“Cause you
can’t have the underhook.” I said matter-of-factly.
And I
pummeled my arm under his, gaining control of his left shoulder.
‘Okay,” he said,
and relaxed his arm over mine, unaware of the advantage he was giving me, returning
my words with his beautiful, pliant kisses.
