I can’t take my eyes off her now though. I don’t want to. I let one fingertip travel along the top edge of her bra.

Soft. Inviting. She watches me. Watches me explore her. Her hands are on my back, underneath the t-shirt that I desperately want her to remove. It’s true. My want for her is nothing short of desperate. She’s been fuelling this fire for weeks. Every kiss. Every whisper. Every touch. Every delay. Designed to culminate in the evening we are experiencing right now. Senses attuned to every nuanced component of our interaction.

Taste. We haven’t kissed for several minutes. I want to taste her. I mean, I really want to taste her. My arms go back up over her shoulders and we’re kissing again. Hungry. For each other. For more. Much more. The anticipation of what she might do next is exquisite. For what I might do next, for that matter. I don’t even know what I will do, let alone what she will do.

The not knowing. The being with someone new. That’s only one part of it. It’s also her. She exudes desire. For me, yes. But I’ve seen others try to steal a glance at her when we’re out in public. Men. Women. Younger and older. But she makes you feel as though you’re the center of her existence. All she can focus on.

The bottom of my t-shirt rests on her wrists, but her hands move higher on my body, of course bringing the shirt higher. Absolutely. Let’s get rid of that. It only takes a momentary separation for us to remove it.

She was tentative in removing my jeans. And neat as she folded them over the arm of the couch. No longer. She tosses the shirt aside. Who cares where.

She places her hand on the side of my face and the kissing resumes. Her jeans have got to go. And whatever underwear she has on might as well go with them so we can get a whole lot more naked. I work with both hands and she helps with one, pushing them down before they’re low enough for her to step out of.

We’re finally on the bed. Under a sheet. Adorned with nothing but smiles. I haven’t touched her yet. But I could feel how hot she was when I was getting her jeans off. I don’t care if she touches me, I want to stop depending on my imagination to fill in the blanks of what making love with her will be like. And I’ve done my fair share of imagining lately.

The length of our bodies are skin to skin. I can feel how wet she is against my thigh as it rests between her legs. My hand runs up and finally over her. Fuck. Wet. Hot. Wanting. Wanting me. As much as I want her.

I touch her the way I like to be touched. But she moves down my body and I lose contact. Her mouth is on one breast; her tongue teases me; her fingers are inside me. Oh God I’m going to come already. I’m so ready. And then she stops. By my side. Kissing again. I reach for her. A whimper escapes from my throat. My fingers are coated with her desire. We’ve been at this for hours now.

Occasionally, words are exchanged. More often, though, it’s just sounds. The pattern of her breathing changes. A whisper. A confirmation.

I get so close. She seems to sense it and backs away again. My desire doesn’t recede, but neither does it explode like it threatens to. Promises to.

Oh God. She’s moving further down my body again. And not stopping. Several more words.

Gentle kisses placed intimately. A directed movement of tongue on soft skin. And a moan that I don’t want to keep from happening escapes me.

”Please…”

It’s all I can manage. Just the one word. But she takes it to heart. And please me she does.

(the end)