She'd hear the window squeak, but always kept her eyes closed. It was always felt better that way. First the soft pat of a cat's feet, then shoes, and a door's lock. She'd already be on fire by then. It would only take a moment, shoes would hit the floor and she'd feel his soft weight, shuffling up the bed or at her side. He'd kiss her once, and she'd tease him by pretending to sleep, but he'd already know for the blush that crept up her cheeks. Her eyes would open and they would share a knowing look, one old as time and just as bright in their eyes. And it would begin.

No matter how soft that orange material was, he'd always prefer to have her skin under his hands. At times he'd leave his gloves, as she loved their touch, but they could only do so much, and he longed for the sound of her voice, breathless and pleading in his ear. She was intoxicating and he'd often lose himself in the feel of her, marveling when there would be no clothing left between them, but having no memory to it being removed. God, he loved her, his Michigan water witch...

She always fancied them as puzzle pieces, made to fit but locked together firmly when placed. Caught somewhere between him almost being too much and her almost being too tight, they fit together in a snug way that always left them blissful and hungry for each other. He'd have to stifle her moans with his lips and tongue. Once before, when his visit had been delayed, she'd found his kisses not to be enough and ended up face-first in her pillow. God, how they both had loved that...

For the millions of ways their nightly dance began, it always ended the same; her head tucked lovingly under his chin, breathing heavily as the sweat dried from their skin and whispering words they wouldn't dare speak in the light of day. Once she fell to sleep, he'd be gone, the cat left to comfort her and his kisses still burning on her skin. She'd wake to the light of day with a content sigh, and have to search for where he'd thrown her panties. She never minded.

"Oh, Wybie..."