I was drooling on the cushion, I think. That’s how deep gone I was.
Sunday morning, couch, my face smashed sideways into the arm, one leg hanging off. The pregame show was on, muted, some men in suits laughing silently at each other. The window light made everything gold and slow. Brett had been up for hours. I could hear him moving around, the coffee maker, the rustle of the paper he insists on getting.
Then the weight of him, sitting on the edge by my hip.
“Mm,” I said, to be polite.
He didn’t answer. His hand slid under the band of my sweats, warm, and just rested on the small of my back for a minute. Then lower. I didn’t open my eyes. I lifted my hips a little, lazy, an invitation barely awake, and he took it, tugging the sweats down to my thighs.
I felt the cushion shift as he settled over me. His chest against my back. His mouth on the nape of my neck, and then slow, so slow, unhurried, pushing in while I breathed in and out through the sleep. No rush. No words. The TV flickered silent touchdowns behind my eyelids.
I came without really waking up, a warm blur, a soft pulse into the cushion.
He finished a minute later with a sigh like he’d been waiting all week to.
“Back to sleep,” he murmured, pulling the blanket up.
I did. Somewhere in there, the kickoff happened.
