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I woke to her gentle touch on my cheek, my eyes fluttering open, immediately dropping to the loose collar of her nightie, to the heavy breasts hanging there, swaying gently. I brought my gaze back to her face trying to make out her features in the darkness. I opened my mouth to speak but she pressed a finger to my lips, a moment later taking it away to lift the covers. She backed away from the bed then and held her hand out.
I slid out from under my father’s arm, still draped over my stomach, swinging my legs to the floor, pulling my shirt down as I moved, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
I took her hand and followed her to my room, sliding under the covers when she lifted them. She sat on the edge of my bed, her hand coming up to my cheek. She smiled down at me, moving her fingers into my hair, sifting through it, patient, loving. I smiled then, a lazy, tired smile. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, honey.”
She continued to move her fingers through my hair, her nails teasing my scalp. The moonlight from my window illuminated her in the most amazing way, showing me only her silhouette, her dark hair hanging loose over her arm, her warm, brown eyes black in the shadows. My gaze dropped, drawn to her chest, to the shadowed outline of her breast, clearly visible beneath the shear fabric, so soft and round and heavy, her nipple pushing against the thin material, drawing my attention.
She curled her fingers in my hair then, gathering it, pulling gently, then harder, making my eyes flutter closed.
“Like that, baby?” she asked, her tone low and soft.
I opened my eyes, nodding. She released me and moved her hand back, again closing her fingers, tightening her grip, making me moan. “Feels wonderful,” I said, sounding lazy even to my own ears. Again she released me, and again she moved to a new spot, gathering my hair, closing it in her fist, squeezing. She allowed my hair to fall through her fingers then moved to push a lock of it behind my ear, drawing the tip of her finger over it. I leaned in to the touch, my gaze on hers. She moved from my ear, her finger tracing my brow, her touch unbelievably soft, making my eyelids flutter closed. She drew the finger down my nose then over my lips then down my chin, making me smile.
“Such a beautiful girl,” she said, her tone light.
I opened my eyes then, smiling. She was, by nature, very nurturing, very loving. And I knew, even at my age, that I was very lucky. I knew, listening to my friends complain, that my mother wasn’t like theirs. Where theirs were impatient, mine was calm, with nothing but time for me. Where their mothers were busy, my mother stopped to hug me, wanting to know what was going on in my life. My mother was warm and beautiful, and when I grew up, I wanted to be her.
“That’s a pretty smile,” she whispered.
She leaned forward then, pressing a kiss to my nose, then to my forehead, her lips lingering, in no hurry, allowing me time to breathe in her scent, to enjoy the closeness.
She pulled away slowly, again smiling down on me. She cupped my cheek. “Sleep tight, angel.”