She’s standing there in the doorway, all pale skin and dark lips. I look her over, take in every last curve. Can’t help but imagine what she must feel like, what she must taste like. And if we were in my house, I would be doing that and so much more.
We aren’t in my house, though. We’re in hers.
And on her turf, the innocence is lost. Her charm turns coy, her motions deliberate. Soft and sharp all at once, making my fingers curl in the bed sheets. This is torture. Watching such perfection move, slowly, daintily, and being unable to touch. Unable to feel, to grip, to bruise.
There’s no music, but I swear that she could be dancing. Her lips quirk up into a smile. Small hands trace lines across her torso, rest on the curve of her own hips. Dip down further, further…
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