It was the second night she was staying over. We’d hung out on the couch and lightly fooled around in between fights and beers, grabbed In N Out, talked and laugh about our respective trips and plans for the week. My voice was completely gone, and I couldn’t do anything but hoarsely whisper; she gave me the cold, after all, so it didn’t matter if I continued to kiss her.
She wore a simple white cotton mini crop that showed the exact coordinates of her hard nipples on small, cute breasts, and a pair of jogging shorts that, I soon found out, didn’t trap any moisture. I picked her up – she’s only 5’3, and might crack 100lbs on a good day – and kissed her neck, her clavicle, her cheekbone. I ran my tongue lightly and traced the curves of her ribs, her sternum, tickled her belly button with my nose. What can I say? I love to induce gasps as much as giggles, and if you’re in my arms, you’ll have attention paid to those parts of you that, in the past, most have likely foolishly ignored.
Sorry, waxing poetic. On to the fucking.