His Hands

 

It's 5:24 a.m. 

I've been up since before midnight yesterday. 

My mind has been in many places this morning, one of which gave me inspiration to write about R and me spending time together this past weekend. 

I crave his touch. 

Think of butter melting softly. 

It doesn't matter right away if sex will be involved; all I want is his touch, his hands. 

His hands and how they move, intuitively knowing where and how long to touch, linger, or tease, bring me back into my body. His hands—touch—allow me to get out of my head.

 

Because once I'm out of my head, amazing orgasms show up.

He lifts the bedcovers and beckons me under. 

I quickly slide into the comfortable nook he creates with his body, fitting perfectly into his torso; my white lace-covered bum grazes his bush as I nestle in. 

 

He groans with pleasure. 

I've been waiting all week for exactly this moment, he says, nuzzling himself closer. 

I tuck myself into him more in agreement, and we pause there; our breath slows down until it becomes one breath intermingled together - his and mine.

 

His body heat is warm and reassuring. 

I begin to soften in, allowing him in, past the outward and into my inner workings. 

He senses my shift. 

His hands roam, and I move my body to accommodate his touch, guiding him where to go with only my body and breath.

It's erotic and addicting, his touch. 

Like no other. 

It is now 6:11 a.m. 

I crave his touch.

-Shannon Marie