Summer Nights

She sits up in bed, her laptop warming her stomach and her legs wrapped around a pillow. She switches between two tabs, one is an article about eyeshadows from Vogue, the other an out take from a science magazine. Her phone is silenced, but only because she can see the screen burst into life when she gets a text. The digital alarm clock flashes 1:30AM, and the world is still. Her phone demands attention, and it's him.

He must have agonized over each letter in the message, knowing him:

"Hey, make sure your window is unlocked, not a creep. Just wanted to say hey, in person I mean."

She smiles to herself. She's been cruel and heartless and wicked to others. And smiled pretty all the while. But not to him.

Her window is always unlocked in the summer time, so she has no need to get out of bed, instead she just closes her laptop, and places it on her bedside table. Laying in the semi-dark, she listens for the tell-tale rumble of his old car's engine. Sure enough she hears it, two streets away. It comes closer, and stops near by. Two minutes later, there's a tapping on her second-floor window.

He has to climb up the old, rusted iron ladder runs that once served as a fire escape from the roof. Then side steps along the tiles until he reaches her window sill. She can see his silhouette through the floaty white curtains.

She waits, and he pulls up the window, at first it creaks in protest, but then slides easily. He clambers in a little clumsily, and she smiles at him. He nervously grins and comes closer to the bed.

"Hello." He waves his fingers at her, and she wants to laugh and pull him onto her, but resists it.

"Here for a reason?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Just. Hey." He says, sitting down suddenly then springing back up as if unsure why he'd done that. She wants to laugh, but holds it in.

"That all?" She says, a purr in his voice that he's become accustomed to. She pats the bed beside her invitingly. He bounds over, moving quickly, and settles himself down next to her.

"No." He whispers, and she turns to him, scanning his face in the dim light of the lamppost outside as it filters through the curtains, still swaying from his entrance. He looks good, great.

And he looks like he wants her. He looks like he's aching. He looks at her as if she were everything to him. It makes her heart thump a little louder. She feels her past be erased each time their eyes meet. He looks at her as if she's an angel.

But she's seen too much, she knows there's no such thing.

And he knows there's only her. But they don't care. Who would? They have each other. That's worth worshiping. That's all the hope they'd ever need.

The moment hits, and they're sucked into the make-out vortex. He pulls her into a kiss that is both time meltingly slow, and over all to quickly. The world means nothing, and stars erupt behind their eyelids.

They pull away, and she wraps her arms around him, rolling them over so he's supporting himself on his elbows, hovering above her, resting most of his weight on his arms.

But the pressure he does put on her is thrilling, and she stretched her legs out before wrapping them around him.

The catch in his breath makes her smile, she hopes that'll never stop. That she'll never stop amazing him. She wants him to need her, to be in awe of his own luck of having her. To be in wonder of her body, and what she gives him.

And he's getting with the program, as they always do.

So what if they've explored each others bodies countless times? It isn't enough to do it once. Because each time it feels new, each time something changes and she finds a new reason to moan.

"Sue me" she thinks, "sue me for loving this. Sue me for loving him."

It's 2AM, and she doesn't even think of sleeping.