Joshua
The feel of her wet underwear is making my muscles solidify. I want to be inside her so bad, I’m almost panting for it. I press my thumb into that damp patch of underwear, feeling her give way to that suggestion of an intrusion. My hand slides up her stomach, pausing briefly at her breast before trailing up the front of her throat.
When my finger’s near her mouth — our mouths — I can smell her on my skin.
I dip my head down, pressing our foreheads together as I try and get air into my lungs. She shivers against me, tugging free the back of my shirt so she can slide her hands up my back.
There’re no muscle for her to feel — I don’t have a second left for working out, not that I would ever feel the inclination to do so — but if she’s disappointed, it doesn’t show. Instead, she works her fingers over the nubs of my spine, as far as she can go until my shirt constricts her arm.
I press my thumb against her underwear again, earning myself another deep-throated moan. I run my fingertips over her mouth, feeling her lips tremble against it, and then slide my hand into that faded gradient of colors that make up her hair. It’s silky, each strand so thin and light. I tug out her elastic, working to free her hair from its braid. I work out the tangles with my fingertips while my thumb brushes long strokes over her slit.
I lean back, watching her face. Her eyes flutter closed, her lips parting at my touch and her hands stilling around my waist.
As much as I love watching that delicate face coma-like in its appreciation of my touch… I want to hear her gasp in shock again.
So I grab a fistful of her hair. Yank her head back to expose that swan-like neck.
She does gasp, but it’s a strangled sound, coming from that contorted neck. Her eyes fly open, staring down her nose at me with something approaching unease.
Unease… or anticipation?
I dip my head forward and press my lips to her chin.
And then I force two fingers inside her, sliding them right past her pathetic excuse for underwear.