Page 87 of David

His arm loops around my waist, his hand slipping up my robe before stopping at my hip.

Tingles rush across my skin, heat pooling between my legs.

Maybe we can be friends after all.

Adding this notion to the mix removes the last layer of resistance, introduces the idea of trust, and makes the possibility of kissing him something I wholeheartedly want to indulge in.

It’s only a goodbye kiss, I say to myself, and the fact that we’ve openly discussed our options and not made a game out of them makes me entrust myself to him.

So I wind my arms around his neck and let him pull me into him.

We aren’t even going for a kiss on the cheek.

He straight out brings me to him, and despite everything we said, we lock lips and feed on the warmth flowing through our veins.

I don’t let go of him, our lips connected in a sensual exploratory kiss.

He is warm and steady against my chest, not going all aggressive on me. Not having one of those fits some men had in the past when they rushed and ruined everything.

Our breaths become one, our lips moving slowly as our tongues keep touching, creating electrical storms.

Things happen smoothly as I press my bare chest against his dress shirt.

His muscles shift as he moves his arms and brings me straight on top of him.

My robe is completely open.

And I am completely open as he lies back against the couch with me on top of him, straddling him, naked, my bathrobe barely clinging to my shoulders, my hair sliding across my back.

My hands drop to his neck while my head is tilted down, and we keep kissing, fully reveling in the sexual storm approaching us quickly.

As much as getting involved with him is not a good idea, I’m too curious about experiencing pleasure to end it all now.

I wish I had more strength, climbed off, gathered my bathrobe, and invited him out.

I wish I didn’t feel bad about ignoring my own words.

We will still not be more than this, but I have zero time to think about it as his hands slip under my robe, moving slowly from my backside to my shoulders.

My robe finally falls, and his head tilts up while my face tips down, my hands sliding closer to his cheeks.

Fervor and deep curiosity fuel the kiss that we are sharing.

I knew he was a good kisser. And he is not even trying.

He doesn’t rush me or pull ahead of me.

He probably doesn’t want to scare me, but I have no fears. I feel him hard and follow my instinct, a terrible decision as I grind my center against his groin.

Tearing my lips away from his, I murmur, “We shouldn’t do this.” And then I let my hands glide to his shoulders.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he says, kneading my chest and lowering his mouth to a nipple.

The consistent moans inching up my chest tell the voice in my brain to shut up.

I’m so wet I could ruin his fancy pants.

He roughly sucks on a nipple, his hands giving me pain.

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