Lilly and John

Lilly couldn't sleep.  She got up at 4:44, acording to the infuriatingly accurate green-glowing clock.  She shuffled into the bathroom, peed and showered, and slipped quietly back into bed with John. He was on his side facing away from her. Lilly spooned him, slipped her arm over his ample torso, and tucked her hand under his crossed arms. Sometimes, when she tried to move her hand away he gripped it tightly, like he didn’t want to let her go. That is what she told herself. That he couldn’t let her go. She knew in some other part of her brain that it was probably just some sleep induced reaction with no definitive meaning. But the spiritual, sensual, cosmic part of Lilly wanted to believe that there was at least some conscious part of John that knew, even in sleep, that it was she who was tucked around him, and that he desperately needed her and did not want her to leave. Sometimes she felt this same pull, when he held her with his arm around her. When she tried to move his grip on her grew stronger. She loved that. One little motion that meant more to her than all the orgasms he felt he was so easily and abundantly supplying.