Curled along my back, the warmth of her body left an imprint where it touched my skin; her hip rested against my ass, one leg draped over my own, and her breasts nestled against my back. Eyes closed, she existed only in the curves of her heated skin.

Her hand drew lazy calligraphy along my chest and it took every ounce of willpower I had to remain still. This once, I would be touched, instead of touching.

She took her time, her fingers winding their way lower. She pressed close, thighs half-straddling my leg. She could feel the tension in the lines of my body as I fought to be still, her fingers waking nerve endings, the intimate press of her skin making me hard and hungry. It was a slow hunger, but with each touch, it was becoming too strong to ignore.

She slid on top of me, hair falling across her face, obscuring the details, but I could feel her, straddling my waist, her heat pressed against the top of my pelvis.

Lowering herself, the soft curve of her breasts brushed my face. My lips parted, tasting skin, tongue finding the passing hardness of a nipple, unexpectedly capturing it.

She didn't want me to move; she took my hands and drew them over my head, bringing her even closer; I could feel her hair against my face, breath tickling my skin. Her body threatened to overwhelm mine, her hips rolling forward to press against mine – I knew she could feel it, feel the length of me, nestled against the apex of her thighs.

And now when she moved, rocking forward, it was to feel me slide along the moist folds of her sex.

With a groan, my fingers closed and I arched upward – and still she moved at her own pace, head tilted back as she rode me slowly, not letting me inside, just teasing herself.

And me.

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