Beads of sweat still glistened, trapped in the soft hairs of his chest and belly. She gently wiped them away with the tip of a finger, one by one, reminiscent of the chasing and popping of bubbles floating through the air during a childhood summer.
Her ear to his chest, she could feel more than hear the thump of his heart beating against her cheek. She could taste him still on her lips, but just to be sure, she leaned them forward and planted a gentle kiss on his smooth, luminescent skin.
“I am yours,” she whispered. He nodded in agreement.
“Whatever that means….” she trailed off absent-mindedly. “I just know it means something.”
He tilted his head. “Mmmm?” he questioned. “I could hear the first part, but you’re whispering too quietly for me to have heard the rest.”
“I said I’m yours,” she repeated.
“Yes, you are mine.”
“And I don’t know what it means, but I know it means something.”
He smiled. “I think it means you’re my dirty, red-headed slut,” he said, reminding her of the force with which he’d just taken his filthy slut’s holes in succession. “I don’t know if that’s any great revelation though. You’ve been a dirty slut for a long time.”
“Sort of,” she laughed. Years of abstinence. Years of waiting for the right fit to come along. Desire and opportunity had never presented themselves together so perfectly until he came into her life. What made her the slut? The desire? The action? The sheer jubilation with which accepted orgasm after orgasm when he fucked her?
The truth hinged on the word “yours,” as it so often did.
“Before I was yours, I was Schrodinger’s slut,” she surmised.
His broad smile met with the twinkle of her deep blue eyes.
There was no doubt anymore. Whatever had been in that box all those years belonged to him now.