You’re slipping under to tug the blanket, a heavy quilt, over the shoulders and to the neck—you liked to sprawl out during the night, kick free of any obstruction, while your mother kept her polite space, so waking up always meant coming back—into the trapped warmth of your bodies pressed together, and make swinging a loose arm over her hip with fingers grazing down the navel.
She makes a groggy noise, called in the throat, and you come to kiss the shy reveal of her neck.
“Morning Momma,” you say, nose buried in twisting curls.
It’s a slow awakening, one you can feel. muscles contracting, the mechanical rise of her chest stuttering into control awareness before settling.
“Baby, it’s too early,” she mumbles, rolling to face your side.
The sun breaks late in the late winter, but a half-closed curtain spills her early light. You take a hungry kiss, wetting her dry lips with your spit and she comes to be held in your arms. The blanket had slipped down her shoulder, prickling skin in the cold frost. One teasing nipple, circled like a dollar coin, hardens. Thick and brown—a suckling purpose.
Laying the palm hand across the under stretch of tit, you can fold your thumb over to press. To rub sore circles. Your mother hitches a breath, breaking kiss to crane her neck. There are scattered blooms of last night's love affair.
A biter—that’s what you always were—and nothing but trouble for your poor working mother.
You press harder, until you know that it hurts, and lean forward to lay tongue flat in the hollowed space between collar bones. Her hands scratch down your neck and shoulders. There’s a tension rising.
Until she sighs, letting the body melt.
Moved a little closer, knees knocked and legs entangled, you’re stiffly pressed by stomach fat never worked away from your birth. Her hip raises to allow your slotting. Cock-fit. Warming. With tucked satisfaction you come into the hold. The room will fill soon, already lightening with days beginning, golden white and hot.