Technically, we've slept together countless times before in the five years we've known one another. In the same bed, generally nude and occasionally with a third person. For some reason we never quite went all the way, never quite intended to. We play at being risqué, never mentioning respective partners of the time but delighting all the same in the naughtiness and secrecy of our game.
Dares. Who dares to brush the most flesh? How deliberately can you do it? Your hand running lightly over my hip, my breath on the back of your shoulder, rough legs against smooth. Giggling. Sometimes pretending to sleep while following the tentative exploration of semi-conscious hands. In the morning you climb over me and pause, poised above my body, meeting my eyes deliberately for a few seconds before we begin to laugh. A game.
Once I was so aroused I came audibly in my sleep, your hands and mouth nowhere on my skin when I woke.
Any third person would more often sleep than play. Drunken friends collapsing half dressed in bed together after a night out. While they sleep your hand is resting on my skin and then stroking just inside the elastic of my black g-string. I rock back until curve of my ass is touching, just barely, the straining hardness behind me. Scarcely breathing. Smiling in the dark, both turned on by the control, the restraint of not having sex.
***
"Have we ever actually fucked?" you ask me in the pub one night. Among the laughing banter of our incestuous university crew it is taken for a joke. "I've lost track." "Liar." my eyes laugh back silently but I remark only with indications to others present that we've fucked by proxy.
***
Last night, the responsible left at 2030 and the tired at 2200. The two of us then returned to the first pub of the night. Full circle. By the time you suggest that booze is cheaper at your place, we can barely stand. I think I fall.
I don't remember our train journey but then I am in your flat pouring absinthe into wine glasses. My partner calls, we chat and I tell him to lock up. Another lacuna in memory. We are now in bed half-dressed, absinthe undrunk. "You could take off your underwear." you suggest. "I have."
I match you and then we are sitting on the edge of the bed and a clock is ticking silently, faster and faster somewhere. You caress my breasts purposefully and there is intention in our kisses. The rules of the game have somehow changed. Your hand traces lightly between my thighs and this time you are surprised at the recently shaven smoothness.
"It makes me more sensitive." I try to explain but you aren't listening. Your mouth, your tongue are busy at my breasts and I am out of breath; the fingers on my slit stroke patiently at the hot outer folds.
