Presses

We lay under the covers, his tan arms wrapped around my pale figure, mouths unmoving, minds seemingly at peace. My eyes wander around his bedroom, studying every crevice, as they hadn't the chance to see where anything but the bed was earlier. The floor is covered in empty CD cases, the discs themselves stand in a tall tower beside his iMac; notebooks are scattered around the room, some lay open, his scribbles on display appear to be a working progress. Our clothes are splayed across the wooden floor. My mouth creases into a smile as I recall how they all got there. His warm palm is stretched across the width of my torso; my minds eye returns to the morning I awoke in this same house to find his hand in the same position on her washboard stomach. I shake all thoughts of her from my mind until I hear an unfamiliar ring tone - his. He removes his hand from my skin, to search for the handset on the patch of floor beside the bed. 
    "Is?" he asks, bemused but gentle.
Throwing the phone back to the floor after a brief exchange, he places his soft lips on my ear, kisses the lobe and whispers, "Isobel's on her way," before practically leaping out of bed with me to get dressed for her. I follow his lead and am about to pull on my black silk knickers when my mind formulates a better idea. I pull my dress over my head, replace my converse on my feet and smooth my hair down with my palms. My foot touches the top step of the staircase, ready to descend, grab my bag and leave, when the door bell rings. 
   "Hide in the bathroom," he instructs before pulling me back into him and pressing his lips to mine.