Clothed in Him


She woke with his scent clinging to her like a soft new skin. It covered her arms, hands, belly, and chest. She could taste his kiss on her lips, smell his breath on her cheeks. He was everywhere, his musky scent layered over her body like hedgespun silk. Every time she moved, she caught a whiff of him that made her turn, always expecting him to be right behind her. The smoothness of his cologne coupled with the softness of his shirt brushed through her memory, then the deeper, more pungent musk of his bare skin. It was like touching her own flesh just released more and more of him until she was drowning in him again.

Why on earth would she ever want to get dressed?