With her back to me, she nestled like a slow S against my body.
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“Ok.”
I rested my hand on top of hers and guided it to her stomach, a low plane of soft warmth that was as smooth as a river. Slowly – slowly – slowly – our hands slid under the edge of her jeans and then deeper, pressing along the delta of her pelvis, fingers curling into a greeting, a beckoning; my intent ghosted hers; hands moving in unison, we pressed inside.
Back arched, her first real breath was an escape. She moved with easy grace; I caught her free hand, capturing it against her hip, fingers entwined tight. The only skin I could taste was at the alcove of her throat and shoulder; my breath was warm and in pace with our hands. I felt her low shudder like an iceberg.
…
“You said I am an iceberg.”
“No, I said you shuddered like an iceberg.”
“Sometimes my shudder is all there is.”