The heavy thump, thump, thump as you climb the stairs betrays your presence.

Damn, Paul, please don’t wake Adie.

I place my fingers to your lips as you come into view.  “Our daughter is sleeping.”

Your eyes lust for your wife in your favorite burgundy lace chemise.

Lips meet and electrifying jolts surge through us, between us. 

Tongues twirl, search, taste, elicit.  Hands wander.  Desires run amok.  Temperatures rise.

A cry from the nursery.

“Damn, Paul, you woke Adie!”

Frustration ensues as you ask “When will l…”

I place my fingers across your lips.

“When will we,” I reply.