The waistband of her jeans is rough against the back of my knuckles as I slide my fingers down the smooth skin of her hips. The band of her underwear is softer, but I let my fingers glide atop it, taking tiny gentle steps, my knuckles still barking against the jeans above. My fingertips find skin again, the shallow bowl of the hip; I bend my wrist and my third and fourth fingers find purchase against the rounded edge of the bone in front. For a moment, they hesitate, poised to step further, to bring my hand around the corner until my fingers feel the velvet of her upper thigh. I think I can feel the heat coming off her.
Our eyes meet, wide in the semidarkness. Mine flicker down to her mouth, where the tiniest glimmer of a tooth shows in a subtle bite of her lower lip. I slowly draw my hand up from her jeans, catching a nail on the bottom seam of her underwear and drawing it up, for the briefest moment. My hand doesn't leave her body, and the other joins it in parallel on her other side, scooping around the soft roundness of the waist. My fingertips grow light as they reach the valley of her spine. One hand darts down to cup round her bum, gripping it firmly through the thick jeans, as the other lifts up along the smoothness of her back until my forearm—my bicep—is warm against her side and my fingers are playing with the strap of her bra. In that same hungry movement I've pulled her close to me and she lets out a small gasp. I can't help it—a sound escapes from my lips as well. Both my hands are up her shirt now, the one clutching her shoulder from the back—rucking the blouse up past the bottom of her ribs (I can feel the warmth of her stomach against me, even through the fabric of my shirt)—and the other pinches and releases the clasp of her bra.
She nibbles the edge of my jaw and looks up at me with a cheeky smirk. "Not bad," she says.
With a passionate jerk, my forearm is under her ass and lifting her against me. My other hand, still through her shirt, has clutched the back of her neck. My lips catch hers unprepared, half-open in surprise, but before she has time to melt into it (she begins to), I pull my face back, put her down, and step back.
The bottom of her shirt, rumbled up, has caught in the loose strap of her bra and her mouth is still in the shape mine left it in. As she looks at me, her expression changes. An eyebrow raises, the lips close and a corner of them lifts. She holds out her arms, further displaying the disarray of her outfit. "You gonna leave me like this?"
I send her a wink in return. I shrug as I look up and down her length. "I thought about it. Give me a twirl?" I ask as a cheeky afterthought.
She laughs, but lifts her arms like a dancer and rises on her tiptoes. As soon as her back is turned, I've closed the distance and my arms around her. My knuckles trace up the last inch of her stomach, then my hands turn, sneak underneath the hanging bra, and cup her breasts. She relaxes back against me, the back of her head on my shoulder. Her scent fills me as her breasts fill my hands and I can't resist a nibble at her ear, my nose brushing against her cheek. Without noticing, I've closed my eyes: her taste, her scent, the delicious smoothness of her breasts . . . Her nipples harden under my palms, and her head has shifted. Her ear is out of reach. The faintest touch of warm breath, then a consummate warmth of soft lips presses against my chin. I let out a moan and I can feel her mouth smile against my skin. I seize the bottom of her bra, a handful of her blouse, and pull it up. We part, and it's like a cold wind between us—only fabric in my hands, her body gone. I cast the clothing aside and drink in the sight of her, though the distance aches like a—god, like something butting hard against a close restraint, too big for its holding.
She's beautiful. Perfectly shaped, coloured, scented, flavoured—coy. The round breasts, their delicate nipples, taken from my sight as she draws her forearms over them. Even the bones in her wrists are perfect, the subtle curves of her arms, the fingers that curl over her triceps. I step forward, almost unconsciously; it's a need, not a casual impetus. I trace the back of a finger over her stomach, around her belly button. The other hand touches the crook of her waist, just below the ribs. As if it's never had the sensation before it lands one finger at a time, gentle like the steps of an astronaut without gravity, and once collected travels delicately around to her back. My other hand joins it and she moves in closer to me. Her pelvis joins mine first, as if her bare torso hesitates for a moment. Her arms are still between us. I look down at the faint scoop of her clavicle, and the shape of her shoulders, and the curve of her breasts pressed close against us. I move my mouth close to hers, and our lips match: slightly open.
I whisper, "May I?" and she gives the slightest nod. My hands are flat against her shoulder blades, cocked by the crossing of her arms. My breath leads my tongue to her mouth. Its tip traces the minute ridges of her lips, which part more as my tongue explores. My tongue touches the corner of her mouth and travels across her full bottom lip, and now I can feel her breath on it as she exhales with a slight tremble. I curl my tongue up beneath her upper lip, feel the smooth teeth against it, the warm loveliness of her wet mouth. I can't help it: my breath rattles out, too, and then the warmth between us is too much and the distance is too little. Her arms escape from the press and wrap around me as our mouths crush together, open and wet. My tongue slides along hers and they wind together. Our faces rotate and our hands scramble, find purchase, grip, fingers pressing into soft skin. We want to be closer, we want to melt together.
Small gasps of air sneak in through the seal of our lips. Her hands are in my hair, and suddenly her mouth is gone from mine, her cheek scrapes past. She's bit my earlobe, kissed the hollow of my jaw where it meets the neck, is licking, kissing down to my shoulder. I raise my arms and she doesn't miss a beat, dropping down to my waist to seize my shirt and drag it upwards. I'm blinded for a moment as it comes over my head, and then she's there: she's all there and all there is. I catch a glimpse of her breasts moving freely between us before they are pressed up against me, hot against my skin that shivers in lust and sudden nakedness. The force of her embrace stumbles us back a step. My arms wrap around her waist, my tongue wraps around her tongue. She tastes of cinnamon gum and my mouth tingles with it.
