Beautiful Lover

He loved how his paramour smelt of fragrant shampoo; it gave him a strange sort of sensual pleasure to press his lips against soft silver hair, inhaling the scent of peaches and occasional spice.

Tapered fingers weaved their way into an open palm, still in sleep. It was cool to his warm skin, hard to soft. He murmured a loving word, gentle as the way he'd made love to the being by his side.

Beautiful thing, he thought, tucking that cold hand under the covers and between his legs. He shivered at the touch; watched his lover's lashes settle like snowflakes on two perfectly sculpted cheekbones. He felt the familiar rush of blood. Yes, he loved this. He loved it when his lover stroked him, even without knowing it.

Surely the sleeping man wouldn't mind. After all, hardly a single complaint was heard all night.

He smiled and trailed fleeting kisses across the plane of his lover's back, moaning into beautiful pale skin as the hand continued to adore his length. He left licks here and soft nibbles there, and then his parted lips skipped a trickle of blood. Then he quietly guided his lover's hand away and lifted legs, heavy and limp and tired from the night's activity.

He pushed into his lover, deaf to the brazen moan escaping his lips. The intoxication of being fully immersed in his lover's depths threw his head back; and then began the thrusts, gently as he always did. Just as his lover liked.

It was good to feel the fluids he'd left among the moist inner walls that didn't clench so blissfully around his desire as they had the night before. But his love was asleep, after all. His love was tired.

Nonetheless he didn't mind this, like he didn't mind how the lover's body ignored his advances, never got hard. He preferred him that way – when the lover wasn't warm and full of hot blood that only seemed to rush to the wrong head most of the time.

And such beautiful blood. He swooned, kissing the line of crimson that dripped from the abdomen, so passionately torn. And he shuddered, lost then to the wave upon wave, emptying himself into the other while his lips desperately sought the comfort of colder ones.

Soft lips thanked cold fingertips, and he kissed the darling goodnight. Settling his cheek against silver hair - gossamer threads that captured the moon's envy - he sighed. There was none so ethereal in slumber. His beautiful, beautiful lover.