Pomp and Circumstance

The sound of my alarm is his cue:
He's awake, pushing aside the covers,
Wrapping his body around me.
His fingers don't hesitate, sliding easily
Between my thighs and within
The swell of my cunt,
Ensuring I am as wet as he thinks I am.
He's right, of course,
I’m always like this in the morning—
The days and nights a blur
Of heavy eyelids, tired sighs, fancy clothes,
And a dismal hope of any
Encounter between us despite the hours
That have passed apart.

So here I am—his fingers in me,
His voice a growl against my neck
His arms curving around, hoisting me up.
"Taste you," he mutters, wrangling,
Shifting me until I am posed on his face,
His desperate fingers clawing
Like the slip of his tongue.
It never matters to him that I am
Disheveled, unshowered, musky;
Not when his mouth surrounds my clit
Or his fingers find their way inside.
"Fuck,” I moan. He is eager, hungry,
Lapping at my wetness, making more
Hard thrusts of his fingers, taking
What he can from me this morning
While he waits for the dam to break
In my wild writhe against his tongue.

It doesn't take long. It never does.
I’m all pomp and circumstance by day,
But his mistress of the morning
After a long, hard night; a quivering mass
Once he pulls me beside him
And rolls me onto my back,
Driving in before I've even come down.
He plunges deep, grips my hands tight
Biting at my lips while his breath
Becomes a steady groan, his cock
Filling me until I’m whimpering all over again.
It’s only after we come that we share a
Quiet moment: his lips on mine,
His fingers gliding down my side
The minutes ticking by—his, mine, ours.
Then he smiles into my face and says,
“Good morning, love. Better get dressed,
And get to work.” Indeed, I should,
For one more day, until…