Your fingers sliding over my shoulders; it always started the same. Your heat, reassuring at my back as I reclined against you. My eyes slipping from the television to the ceiling as I let your touch wash over me. I always knew when your touch had intent.
My breasts, rising to meet your touch. Your palms always light, always teasing over the lace-covered nipples. You would pause there for a time, knowing what even the most delicate touch would do to me. More, knowing that the most delicate touch you could give was the very same that would send me writhing against you.

Soft gasps from my lips and a growing hardness against the small of my back. At some point someone would grab the remote and silence the television, letting its flickering light be a backdrop to the rising tension and warmth between us.
My nipples a growing ache, making my thighs restless. You would reach in between and grab the two front bits of my bra through my shirt and release me to ache even more. You knew I loved touching through clothes most of all. Something about the not-quite-full touching, the friction and rasping. You knew what just five minutes of attention on my cloth-covered nipples would bring: me, wild and stripped clean of the reserve I sometimes held about me like a shroud.
The tips of your fingers just brushing me lightly as soft gasps turn to small sounds in the base of my throat. I am aching, pushing my head helplessly against your shoulder. Arching my back to bring you closer and rub against the hardness I find beneath me.
You would lift me up slightly to drag at last the cloth from my upper body and settle me once again to lie against your chest while your fingers played melodies at once familiar and arousing against my skin.
Finally, finally, when my legs moved restlessly, ceaselessly against the end of the couch you let your fingers explore lower. They slid lightly down my belly and beneath the waistband of the shorts you so charmingly called “Daisy Dukes”. I would smile when I heard it (and do today, as I think of it).
Already an ache and a pulse between my thighs, even before your first touch. You would loosen the zipper and give yourself room to stroke the soft skin, teasing against me and denying me your touch where I wanted it most.
Breath held and endlessly waiting. I couldn’t make a sound, so afraid you would withhold that touch from me to make my wanting even bigger. Between the wet crease a single finger would slip, run small circles at the entrance and slide just inside. There would be moans. They were always mine. Your breath, hot against my ear, told me how much you enjoyed this too.
The softest touch in the world. Slipping higher, my hips rising to meet it, waitingwaitingwaiting. Your fingers were here and beside that and inside for another moment and then suddenly they would slide higher and they were there.
Another moan this time, usually broken because it was such a sweet ache and such a blessed relief and it only increased my wanting all the more.
Barely touching me, like butterfly kisses. Circling and tapping ever so slightly, listening to my breathing and my moaning and feeling against you the tension as my body stretched and tensed and waited for the next touch. Rising higher.
GodIamsoclose. You can feel it and hear it and smell it. You chuckle dark humour in my ear as you pull your fingers away, just a small fraction. I can still feel your warmth but not your touch and my belly is cramping and this orgasm is something my entire body wants and needs and cannot turn away from now, even a slight breeze could take me over the edge but you hold me there dangling on a precipice of pleasure and I am begging you now like I have never begged before or since and I can feel the pulse in my thighs move up to my buttocks and in between and moving higher and I need your touch I am laughing and crying and begging you to please
Touch me one more time. You would, and I splinter apart, an earthshaking rumble that starts in one spot and moves outward down my trembling thighs and up through my belly that aches from the wanting and there is a cry and it is mine but I don’t even know as I ride the wave.
I would be trembling in the aftermath but wild to feel you and I turned in your arms and slid those same Daisy Dukes down my thighs and straddled you, ripping your shirt from your body and rubbing against you and telling you with my lips and my tongue against yours what my heart could not say, that you knew my body as no other ever has.

About the author

Vikki McKay
By Vikki McKay

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