“I see you.”
“Yes, well. I am right here.”
“You are very close, you.”
“I know.”
“So if I reached for you? If I touched you . . . what would happen next?”
“No way to know the future.”
“That’s not the same thing as an invitation.”
“If you were to reach out your hand, could you span this distance between us?”
“Yes.”
“No more invitation is required.”
“I will just trace a finger, then. From your forehead to your chin. A straight faint line of descent.”
“Stop at my lips.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Trace the outline of my lips and then pause, so that I might taste you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Trace lightly so that I can barely feel your touch. I want the electricity of almost.”
“Oh, I do like that.”
“And then pause.”
“Oh my god, you make me shiver with your tongue.”
“Then trace that dampness down my chin.”
“To your neck, down the smoothness of your neck.”
“Let me lick you again. I want your fingers in my mouth.”
“Jesus. Yes, do that again.”
“Trace again, with damp fingers. Down to the hollow of my neck. Make that hollow wet.”
“Your head thrown back . . . I love how you arch yourself to me. You glisten.”
“Lean in and blow gently across that damped hollow . . . oh, yes.”
“You like that?”
“So very much.”
“What shall I do next?”
“Give me your hand.”
“Yes?”
“Let me lick the length of your palm. Your fingers. I want you wet.”
“Yes, I want that.”
“And then let me guide your hand . . . down my neck, past that hollow, to the swell of my breasts.”
“Yes, put my hand where you want it to be.”
“Just there. Can you feel my heartbeat?”
“Yes.”
“You hear my breath?”
“Yes. Shallow and quick.”
“Let me just take this off . . . I want your hands on my skin.”
“Now my breath is stilled. I want more than my hands on you.”
“Not now. Give me your hand. Let me lick your fingers.”
“Oh, how do you do that? It’s like suction and release at the same time.”
“Then trace that moisture across my breasts.”
“Like this?”
“Ooooohh . . . just like that. And then blow again. Blow gently across that dampness.”
“Like this?”
“No kissing. Just a breath from you across my skin to cool me as I heat.”
“Oh, I like that.”
“That’s just perfect.”
“I love the arch of you. I will resist, but I love the arch of you into the space between us.”
“The electricity of almost . . . that denial . . . that heightening of anticipation.”
“I love these games with you.”
“You play them well.”
“May I touch your stomach?”
“The lightest brush . . . I will close my eyes. I want to feel the almost.”
“You are almost driving me insane.”
“Then I am doing this exactly perfectly.”
“You are perfect.”
“Let me lick your fingers again. Trace them along my stomach.”
“Lightly. I love how you shake beneath my fingertips.”
“And then blow across my flesh.”
“A little more touching, now? Like this.”
“You make me catch my breath . . . that sudden pinch was excruciating.”
“You liked it.”
“Excruciating and exquisite.”
“So I will reach for you again.”
“Oh my god. Yes.”
“And then a hand pressed lower.”
“Yes.”
“Over the softness of your stomach.”
“Yes.”
“A straight faint line of descent.”
“Yes.”
“Arch into this space between us.”
“Yes.”
“Let me in.”
“Yes.”
“Your lips and then in.”
“Yes.”
“Dampen my hand.”
“Yes.”
“I will trace this moisture over your breasts.”
“Yes.”
“Your stomach.”
“Yes.”
“And then blow lightly across your skin.”
“Oh, I like it when you know what to do.”
“Wiggle out of these pants so I can see you.”
“Yes.”
“I will take a single finger and trace that line of descent.”
“Yes.”
“I will trace the outline of your lips.”
“But then pause.”
“Yes.”
“I want to taste you.”
“Yes.”
