Men’s Shirt, Size L

You are dressed in a large men’s shirt – and nothing else.

My hands smooth the back of your shirt, molding it against your curves, moving down, down, to where shirt meets skin at the top of your thighs; fingertips curl at the edge, finding the sensitive skin just above your ass. Your eyes are hesitant, but the catch in your breathing is clear.

One hand on your chest, I press you back into the wall.

With my knee resting at the ‘v’ of your thighs, your body pinned to the wall, I slip the first shirt button free, and then the second. My knee presses upward, parting your shirt at the bottom. You balance yourself with a hand on my shoulder, hips instinctively tilting up against the pressure I am applying between your thighs.

A third button, then the fourth, fifth, and last. The shirt falls open; you shrug and it slips from your shoulders and off your arms, pooling at our feet.

You are bared.

My knee now moves against naked skin; my hands find the curves of your breasts, fingers spreading apart to capture skin. Palms draw down against the hard nubs of your nipples, fingernails marking your skin with faint lines.

Your hips arch away from the wall and into my knee; wet, you slide against me, trying to capture friction along with the direct pressure being fucked into the wall by my thigh.

You cling to my shoulders and thrust into the force of my movements, meeting the rhythmic heat of skin on skin. I lower my head, finding your nipples; heat, harsh burning heat, bathes each nipple as I take them in, rolling them between tongue and teeth. I pull back to explore the rest of your curves until I am lost against the physical evidence of our desires: my thigh slick from your desire, your breasts shiny from the path my tongue has taken.

I have loosened you from the inside, and you are open, wet, and hungry.

I bruise your lips with kisses, the kind of kisses that take, and take – biting the edge of your tongue, sucking your bottom lip, driving you to accept more. You raise one leg, wrapping it around my waist. Astride my thigh, you bear down, fuck-riding in desperation against my knee as it moves back and forth, the length of my skin capturing all of you, dragging against your clit with each thrust, again, and again, and again, until you cry out, burying your face against my shoulder.

Did I tell you how good that shirt looks on you?