He pulls her gently to him, engulfing her in his arms, his chest, his scent, his presence.  She loves feeling safe and protected in his embrace.  She cherishes being able --if just for a little while--to let go, to drop the mask, to have it be okay not to be in charge and liberated and responsible.  

For a little while they will whisper conspiratorially, unnecessary in the otherwise empty apartment, but After what just happened, After shyness and guilt were overcome (had she really begged him to make her....?), After lust and release, After swelling and sweat, After abandon and a Bad Girl, it seems right and proper to now speak intimately in hushed tones.

When she got up to head to the bathroom she heard his breathing change, get ragged at a mere glimpse of her slick sticky scuffed skin, and she was glad for the darkness, both embarrassed and elated that After All That a stolen glance could still make him hungry.

Sometimes she felt like she wanted him all the time, but nothing in the world turned her on like his desire for her, him reaching for her, his digression into feral state, the growl so deep in his throat she thanked her guardian angel that she wanted him just as much.


After, he was playful, teasing in a gentle way, sometimes just a little bit insecure, seeking her approval, worried he had not done it right.  She soothed him without seeming to even be aware he was not projecting total confidence, stroked his ego in an offhand way so he would not feel weak and pathetic.

In Truth, she liked his vulnerability.  She was always worried she wouldn't please him, worried about inevitable comparisons, her place on the List, the paradoxical fear of appearing too sluttish and not wanton enough.  

And when he took her!  Beyond any lover she'd ever known, beyond even what she herself could achieve with a powerful detachable shower head in a bubble bath with scented candles and half a bottle of wine.  

She knew her limits.  


She thought she had known.  He shattered them all.  Or, she shattered them, when she was with him.  She did not care about the semantics, just the shiver, the sugar and the sweetness that poured out of her in response.  

Now, After, they cuddled - "Spooned," as the experts called it, talking quietly.  He did “post-game” analysis, like he does when watching some sports game she pretended to care about just so she could be with him.  He has a million ideas for "Next Time."  He gets inspired like this often, plans for projects, most of which will never happen, but she's happy to see him happy, sharing silent credit in his glow.  

He strokes her skin as he talks, as if not even aware that he is doing it.  He strokes her side, and her thigh, and when he remembers (or she asks), her hair.  It is not sexual , but in a strange way it is more than sexual, and she cherishes these touches every bit as much as the ones before.  

(Well, almost as much....)

After Dark

Soon he'll wind down, the whispers turn to murmurs.  She feels his heartbeat through his chest pressing against her back, the not-uncomfortable weight of his arm wrapped around her body.  Sometimes he'll slip his hand back down below, and once or twice it's even led to a quick return to Round 2!  But mostly his hand is just a reminder to her that he is there.  

Sometimes she will pull his hand up to her breast, not for squeezes and caresses (well, not just for that), but to connect with him, to anchor him to her as a woman in some way she barely grasps but she was sure psychologists had a term for.  

The trash has to go out in the morning - just a few hours from now, and has she paid the mobile phone bill online?  Better iron that skirt and spot-check the blouse for that big meeting in the morning, and give her presentation another look over to see if.....

It all had to be done, but it could wait a little while.  She had to do those things, but she Needed to be right here, right now, in his arms, Life would still be there waiting.....After.

After Dark Tales                     Hyperion Empire