Feels Like Home

“Feels like home to me,” he said, as she eased onto him, her hair dangling in his face. There was a split second, when their flesh met and all the lights in the house went on. Then, it was nothing but the thick warmth of exotic carpets, the smell of vanilla and sugar from another room, the deep ringing sound of chimes in the summer breeze. None of that existed, of course. It was all in his mind. They were, after all, in a tent. The sleeping bags had been moved aside. Under his back, he felt the roots and bark and cones and pebbles of the forest floor. The rising sun made the yellow fabric of the tent glow. He was surrounded by light, and by her. The wood smoke from the night’s fire had permeated her hair. He breathed her in, the most erotic of incense. The sweat from their late night entanglement had dried on her chest. It was as sensual and maddening as any delicate oyster he had ever passed over his tongue. And here she was again, insatiable, taking him in long, slow, strokes, her eyes deepening with each wanting searching grabbing touch. He watched her, watched the sleepy happy lust in her face, the upturned wickedness of her smile. His hands ran over her like a warm winding brook in the sun, swirling in eddies and riffles across her flexing skin. The river next to the tent rushed over the changing earth while she rushed over his body, moving and shaping his chest and hips. Yes, this was home to him. This was the place he had wanted his entire life. She arched into the yellow light and he filled her with his joy and happiness while the china in the cupboards and the mirrors in the bathroom and the windows into his soul were shattered and lying on the floor, all the musty memories and discontent and barriers to the world, gone. Amidst those ruins, there in the forest, a new home; her.