hungrily, slippery tongue getting bolder and bolder until I’m trembling again, and more aware than ever of just how wet I am.
It comes in fits and starts, however. He’ll kiss and kiss me and explore my mouth until our jaws ache, but then he’ll stop and pull back, and every muscle in his body will suddenly tense against mine. Only when I grasp a handful of the thick hair at the nape of his neck does he push forward again, seek me out again, moan thickly into my mouth.
But I can see that this is all building to him pushing me away. He feels hot and too feverish, shivery-sensitive everywhere and eager to get away from my prying hands. And sure enough, after what seems like a desperate age of frantic making out, he tugs away from me, turns his face to one side.
Even in the low light of his bedroom, I can see the flush devouring his cheeks and throat. His lips are kiss bruised and pouty-slick, and I just want to go for another round, just one more round of this juvenile sticky fumbling – like I’m back in college again, wrestling with my boyfriend in the back seat of his Ford Fiesta. Tongue-y kissing seeming like the height of filth, my sex so wet and filled with ache that I could die from it.
I am going to die, if it isn’t my turn, soon.
‘Don’t –’ he starts, but he doesn’t get any further. Or at least, not with words. Instead he tries to shove my hands down and out of his shirt, struggling to straighten himself before he’s even free of me.
Even stranger, as soon as my hands are away from his bare body, he actually reaches for me, again. His left hand – much bigger and broader than his lean frame suggests – cups the back of my neck, my jaw. He reels me in as though forgetting how nervous and hesitant he appears in every other way, and when he kisses me this time, it’s hotter. Bolder.
While his right hand … his right hand moves forward, to cup my breast.
I go rigid. I think I come. Either way my defences are down and all rational thought flees – I don’t care what he does next, or what I do next, or what he wants. Just please have him carry on doing what I think he’s doing: unbuttoning my shirt.
Whatever it is, he does it quickly and with fumbling fingers, as though at any moment I might stop him. His kisses grow sloppy and erratic, each one punctuated by a desperate groan or hum of pleasure.
It’s clear: he didn’t want me to undress him. But he sure wants me to be undressed.
I let him push me back onto the bed, body thrilling at this brief new side to him. So eager and hungry for something, for me – indeed, once my shirt is unbuttoned he moves back, almost crouching on the edge of the bed with my body sprawled out before him, and the look he gives me as he does it …
His dark eyes gleam, assessing me, and he chews on that plump bottom lip as his hands wander over the skin he has exposed: the almost-flat plain of my stomach, the steep hills of my breasts still encased in black silk. My nipples are standing out stiff and proud through the material, I know, but I don’t know it until his lips part on seeing them. On seeing my tits, my throat, my collarbone. The little dip of my belly button, that he touches first.
I feel him press just one finger there, tentative and curious, before laying his big hand over my stomach. Then he spreads his fingers wide, taking in as much skin as possible, before sliding his hand up, up, to the valley between my breasts.
He doesn’t quite let himself touch them, however. I think he might be waiting for permission, but his soft shaking breaths and marvelling eyes tell a different story. I think he knows he’s allowed – more than allowed. This is his chance to explore.
I don’t have any choice. I have to ask, ‘You want me to take off the rest?’
His patiently wandering gaze flicks up to meet mine, suddenly agitated again but no less arousing for it. I like his agitation, his nervousness – both rub against my tingling hot spots like
It comes in fits and starts, however. He’ll kiss and kiss me and explore my mouth until our jaws ache, but then he’ll stop and pull back, and every muscle in his body will suddenly tense against mine. Only when I grasp a handful of the thick hair at the nape of his neck does he push forward again, seek me out again, moan thickly into my mouth.
But I can see that this is all building to him pushing me away. He feels hot and too feverish, shivery-sensitive everywhere and eager to get away from my prying hands. And sure enough, after what seems like a desperate age of frantic making out, he tugs away from me, turns his face to one side.
Even in the low light of his bedroom, I can see the flush devouring his cheeks and throat. His lips are kiss bruised and pouty-slick, and I just want to go for another round, just one more round of this juvenile sticky fumbling – like I’m back in college again, wrestling with my boyfriend in the back seat of his Ford Fiesta. Tongue-y kissing seeming like the height of filth, my sex so wet and filled with ache that I could die from it.
I am going to die, if it isn’t my turn, soon.
‘Don’t –’ he starts, but he doesn’t get any further. Or at least, not with words. Instead he tries to shove my hands down and out of his shirt, struggling to straighten himself before he’s even free of me.
Even stranger, as soon as my hands are away from his bare body, he actually reaches for me, again. His left hand – much bigger and broader than his lean frame suggests – cups the back of my neck, my jaw. He reels me in as though forgetting how nervous and hesitant he appears in every other way, and when he kisses me this time, it’s hotter. Bolder.
While his right hand … his right hand moves forward, to cup my breast.
I go rigid. I think I come. Either way my defences are down and all rational thought flees – I don’t care what he does next, or what I do next, or what he wants. Just please have him carry on doing what I think he’s doing: unbuttoning my shirt.
Whatever it is, he does it quickly and with fumbling fingers, as though at any moment I might stop him. His kisses grow sloppy and erratic, each one punctuated by a desperate groan or hum of pleasure.
It’s clear: he didn’t want me to undress him. But he sure wants me to be undressed.
I let him push me back onto the bed, body thrilling at this brief new side to him. So eager and hungry for something, for me – indeed, once my shirt is unbuttoned he moves back, almost crouching on the edge of the bed with my body sprawled out before him, and the look he gives me as he does it …
His dark eyes gleam, assessing me, and he chews on that plump bottom lip as his hands wander over the skin he has exposed: the almost-flat plain of my stomach, the steep hills of my breasts still encased in black silk. My nipples are standing out stiff and proud through the material, I know, but I don’t know it until his lips part on seeing them. On seeing my tits, my throat, my collarbone. The little dip of my belly button, that he touches first.
I feel him press just one finger there, tentative and curious, before laying his big hand over my stomach. Then he spreads his fingers wide, taking in as much skin as possible, before sliding his hand up, up, to the valley between my breasts.
He doesn’t quite let himself touch them, however. I think he might be waiting for permission, but his soft shaking breaths and marvelling eyes tell a different story. I think he knows he’s allowed – more than allowed. This is his chance to explore.
I don’t have any choice. I have to ask, ‘You want me to take off the rest?’
His patiently wandering gaze flicks up to meet mine, suddenly agitated again but no less arousing for it. I like his agitation, his nervousness – both rub against my tingling hot spots like
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