You start by kissing him when he’s still asleep. You slide your head along your pillow until you feel his breath against your lips and you smile just a little right before you kiss him softly. Nothing more than a gentle pressure, his lips warm and dry against yours. You pull away after a second, but not too far, and watch. His eyes move behind his eyelids, but then he settles again, scratching his cheek absently against his pillow.

So you kiss him again, and this time you linger a little longer. You suck his bottom lip into your mouth and give it a tug and close your eyes against the deliciously sleepy sound of pleasure humming in his throat. Then he starts to kiss you back, slow and lazy, and opens his lips to you. You press in for a taste—a small one, the tip of your tongue just brushing along the edges of his teeth—then pull back again, opening your eyes to look at him. His eyes are still closed and you think you could just lie there all day counting the freckles splashed across his cheeks. His breathing is even and his lips are wet and you’re quite sure he’s still asleep. But then you watch as he runs the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, tasting it, tasting you, and you’re pretty sure he’s awake.

Then his eyes open halfway, blinking in the gauzy morning light, and you know for sure now he’s awake. He’s awake and he’s looking right at you with darkened eyes that look greener than you’ve ever seen them and you just want to touch him.

So you do. You reach out your hand and trace your fingertips along his cheekbone, his skin warm against yours. And you feel his fingers slide along your belly, slowly tracing the contours, then curve around the dip right above your hip and rest there, his thumb tracing endless arcs against your skin.

Your hand drifts to his jaw, then his neck, your fingers scratching languidly at his hairline, and you lean in and kiss him again. This time, you take a little more, and he gives it to you, opening his mouth wider to allow your tongue to push further in, and you feel it slip-slide against his. And it’s you making the noise this time, the little moan of pleasure bubbling up from somewhere lower, and his fingers slide further over your hip and dig into your spine.

He urges you closer, his hand hot and flat against your skin, and you obey, sliding along the sheets until you’re nearly flush against him, until you can feel his cock against your belly, feel your own against his. You slide your hand up, close your fingers in his hair, and he presses against your mouth like he’s trying to crawl inside.

You slip your knee between his and drag it upwards, pressing the top of your thigh to his groin and smiling at the sound he makes. You feel his nails dig into the skin at the base of your spine and you slip your hand down, snaking your arm beneath his so you can grasp his hip.

His heel slides down the back of your other leg, coming to rest on your ankle, and he arches against you—forward against your belly, then down against your leg. He keeps doing it, his movements slow and deliberate. Like you have all the time in the world. Like there’s nothing and no one beyond the blankets and the bed, beyond you and him and this moment. And the friction against your cock makes you groan, makes you dig your thumb into the hollow beneath his hipbone and gasp into his mouth. You pull your mouth away from his and feel the thin string of saliva snap in the small space between you. And his eyes are open as he traces your lips with the tip of his tongue, licking it away.

He keeps up the rhythm, his fingertips pressing into the spaces between your vertebrae. You feel the sheen of sweat slicking your skin and his, feel the way his skin slides against yours, the way his stubble scratches against your cheek as you tuck your face into the curve of his neck. He smells like sweat and sleep and sex and everything and he tilts his head, stretching his neck in an unspoken invitation. He wants you to mark him, wants to feel your teeth against his skin and the rise of his blood to just below the surface.

So you give him what he wants. You press your mouth to his pulse, feel the throb of his life against your lips. And when you sink your teeth in, he groans, the sound warm and wet against your ear, the vibration of it thrumming through you.

You slide your hand from his hip to his shoulder, dragging your nails along his spine as you go, branding him with your lips and tongue the way he wants you to. He told you once how it’s like carrying you with him everywhere he goes, how he likes to rub the pads of his fingers over the marks and think about you touching him. And you never thought you could ever get off with just words, but you nearly had that time, just listening to him talk like that, about you, about what you do to him, about how he likes to feel like he belongs to you. Of course, you’ve always loved his voice, the roughness of it, the deep, throaty way he says your name when he comes, the softness of it when he tells you he loves you.

Which he does now. And you press a kiss to the line of his jaw and whisper the same to him.

You press your hand between his shoulder blades and hold him close, feel his hand slide up your back until it’s in your hair, holding you in place, like he doesn’t want you to leave him. As if there’s any place else you’d ever want to be but right here with him. And you want to tell him that, as many times as it takes until he finally believes you. But the words die in your throat because you’re coming and so is he and his fingers close so tightly in your hair that it hurts. You hold him tightly and kiss him, trying to catch your breath by stealing his.

And you open your eyes. He’s looking at you and he’s awake and his eyes are clear. His fingers loosen in your hair and he smoothes his hand over it, and that’s another thing he told you he loves, which is why you’ll never cut it.

Then he smiles.

He’s gone when you wake up and at first you think he’s in the shower or in the kitchen making coffee. But then you realize you don’t hear the water running and you don’t smell the aroma of French roast. And then it hits you. Again. Slowly, through the cloud of memories filling your head like a fog. The come drying on your skin is yours alone and the taste of him has long since vanished from your lips and his side of the bed is as empty as it’s been for months. The covers aren’t even crumpled.

Like he was never there at all.