I wash-up two cups, find a spoon,
decipher his mood whilst I pour us coffee.
He’s not talking.
Dishevelled.
Frustrated.
Irate.
Whoever she is, last night wasn’t great-
The bed’s made up with clean white sheets.
She didn’t stay over.

I hand him his coffee.
He nods,
it’s a start but
there’s nothing set up and
I can’t tell where he wants me.
He’s paid for a day- I undress anyway.
And because it’s quite early, still cool-
I sit in a spilled-sunshine-pool
at the foot of his bed.

He studies me.
Traces my line with his eyes.
I keep warm,
drink coffee.
Wait.
He draws a deep breath-
takes my cup,
holds my face in both hands.
Says nothing, just kisses me hard
and pushes me back.

I unbutton his fly-
lick my fingers,
let them glide,
slide.
Rise up to meet him.
He pulls out the moment he’s done.
His frustration feels hot
on flushed skin,
and becomes mine when
he walks away.

He gathers up paper and charcoal-
the tools of his trade.
Arranges my limbs,
places my hand in
glossy-soft-heat between
my slight-parted thighs.
Leans close, kisses me thank you
then whispers
Be still.

muse