There was something about his smile. Not radiant, like romance novels would have people believe, but rather carrying the burden of undertones, of layers. There was him, and right under his skin there was another him, with the left corner of his mouth a fraction higher than before.
I heard a knuckle or two crack next to my ear. He shifted. I gasped. Above me; that’s when I think his smile was the most honest. When he shook his head to get the strands of hair out of his eyes. I lifted my hand and brushed them away.
Slow down, I told him. He raised an eyebrow. I’m not asking, I started and lost my breath for a moment because he shifted just so, I’m not as-as-king you to re-enact Lady Chatterley’s Lover, I said, you don’t love me like that. He stopped. Buried his head in my hair.
I held on to him, kept him on me, in me, with me. When he looked up again, his smile was there. It grew into a smirk, the familiarity of it safe and inviting. His fingers caught in my hair and pulled.
Only when I let you, he ordered. Only then.