He wore black: a bowler and leather pants. His t-shirt advertised some obscure contest, trivia or something. It was snowing, in late April. The old guard had gathered for a weekend of gaming and laughs. A snowball fight, we decided, was definitely in order. I ground the snowball into the back of his neck. He claimed to be too tired to feel it. I lifted his shirt and ran it over his chest, his nipples, and trailed it down toward the leather. "It's not working," he asserted, "although I am getting aroused."
I moved forward and licked the snowmelt from one nipple. His sharp intake of breath told me that something was working. I sampled the other. It tasted the same. His breathing was heavier, now. The others faded around us as my attentions turned to only him. My hands moved to occupy the place my tongue had been, and I ran curious fingers over hard points of pleasure. His eyes retained their usual mischievous sparkle, but a new layer had been added: a sort of primordial lust which interlaced with the giddiness usually residing in his warm brown gaze.
Our lips met. It was cautious at first, the tenuous handshake of two strangers being introduced on a blind date by a mutual friend. They found their foothold (liphold?), and started to dance, then to tango, then Lambada. Shortly, they were spelunking with the kind of reckless abandon which is usually reserved for schools of minnows. Fast, aimless darting; done in perfect synchronization.
His arms found their way around me, and my hands moved to the hollows near his hipbones, stroking idly through the downy hair there, swirling its velvet nap. His hands slithered over my vertebrae, climbing the stairs to the plateau of my shoulder blades. His fingers met resistance in the form of black lace. With a few deft moves, hooks separated from one another: lovers in a long-distance relationship after an embrace. Lace sighed against skin as the black sea parted and its milky riverbed arched against his hands. My arms raised from his hipbones to bring a perfect example of warm waveform motion to play against his chest. I pressed against him as he lifted my velvet tank top and whisked it away on a fun-filled vacation to the floor. His fingers swirled against my bare back like soft brushing of drums in a jazz ballad. His tongue played pattycake with mine in the sweet confines of our mouths. My hands found their way to his shoulders, which I cupped like luscious handfuls of moon-kissed spring water.
The light from the clock in the stove illuminated our bodies as more and more skin emerged, blinking, from its winter slumber under our clothing. Goth-pale skin acquired a green cast as the clock kept proudly displaying its hard won information. His hands slid up the gentle slope of my shoulder blades and relieved my shoulders of the debt of lace which rested there. The straps slid seductively forward as my breasts eased free of their wired lace cages. His hands followed the straps down and cupped the warm burdens which had been so recently borne by the lace. Now it was my turn to gasp, this time against his breath, which filled my mouth and my senses.
His fingers were slender and articulate, majestic in their strength and subtlety. His were an artist's hands, and I felt it with every iota of my being. I whispered his name, drawing it out into an impassioned sigh.
Holding my attention between his index and middle fingers, he drew his head back slightly from mine. Our gaze caught and held, a pair of trapeze artists leaping toward each other and, tightly embracing, plummeting into the moment like mating eagles in deathfall. He rubbed his cheek against mine and kissed the curve beneath my earlobe. He trailed kitten-kisses down my neck, to the hollow of my throat, to the eager points of interest that his "you are here" arrow pointed to. "What, no snow?" I said, my voice emanating lustily from somewhere deep within my throat. His tongue was too busy reading Braille to respond.
