Late November, 2010
"Yes," I replied simply when he said he might have a few hours to spend before his Sunday evening plans. We were in a feedback loop that was sending nothing but positive signals - naughty photos, sexy replies, suggestive looks and lengthy strokes of palms over naked skin.
Will arrived for our third encounter, opening the door based on my email-issued open invitation. I'd left it unlocked, literally as well as figuratively, wanting him to take anything he liked. He greeted me, and Chienne, of course, waiting while I threw her a new squeaky - a fat cow that she pranced around to show him - and we settled close together on the loveseat. There was football on television and a fire flickered in the hearth, all lights otherwise extinguished in the foggy light of a late afternoon.
"I'm cold," I told him, shivering as I faced him and slipped my legs - clad in soft, black tights - over his lap. He rubbed them briskly, helping me smooth a blanket from the waist down and slipped underneath it with me. We talked, trading work stories and he'd occasionally glance at the game while I had focused only on him. The weave of his oatmeal-colored sweater, blue shirt peeking out at his throat. The stubble, impossibly appealing, on his jaw.
"I haven't shaved," he noted when I reached to touch his cheek and I imitated his sound I so love - a pleasured murmur, a sort of gentle hum of response. He would shift sometimes, adjusting the position of my legs and nudging his hands higher until I was nice and warm again. I nudged the blanket to puddle to the floor, absently pushing the hem of my dress lower out of habit.
I smiled when he lifted an eyebrow and lifted it once again, exposing more of my thigh.
"I don't know why I keep pushing it down," I told him, knowing I wanted his hands there - and everywhere - but was caught by habits much more reserved.
"I'll just keep pushing it up," he replied and I shivered and smiled. After several more trips of the hem up and down my thigh, he asked if he should just remove the whole dress.
"I'd just end up under the blanket instead," I decided, offering an expression of helpless apology and watched him nod with amusement.
I need to ask him what signal I give - how he knows when it's time to lean closer, reach higher, lift my right leg to rest behind him on my loveseat that suddenly seems much too small and move his chest closer to mine. I breathe faster each time, curling my toes and gripping his shoulders when warmth spreads throughout my system. I close my eyes when grips my hips to shift me closer, felt myself near orgasm when he lifted his body from mine as I was semi-reclined and moved his hands - such intensely sexy hands - behind my knees as he stood between my legs and yanked me to toward one arm of the loveseat.
"There's not enough room," he told me, eyes heavy-lidded and focused, and I may have told him he was viciously attractive, feeling my thoughts dissolve as I lost track of anything but my response to him. I remember staring at my legs when he eased them to rest on his chest, my ankles just above his shoulders.
"Are you flexible?" he asked, already deep voice husky and soft. "That's OK," he assured when I must have looked worried that I was inadequate. "You don't have to be." And his hands offered a reassuring squeeze to my hips after sliding firmly up the outside of my thighs.
He braced himself above me, perhaps asking what I wanted while I might have accused him of teasing me.
"How much longer?" I asked, knowing he had to leave and always concerned about timing.
"Fiften minutes," he replied as I yanked insistently at his sweater, responding with sighs and squirms when I felt this pressure of his body against mine. I forgot that my head was jammed in the corner of the loveseat. That he must have been uncomfortable with no room to put his legs. "Ten," he teased into my throat when I lifted my chin to give him room. "Five?"
"How is it getting so much worse so fast?" I replied, pressing against him when he rubbed between my legs - the pressure and pattern making me clench - until his hand moved and hips provided the pressure I needed and I breathed there, surprised when he echoed the word and pressed harder.
He didn't kiss me, but I listened to him breathe, my soft sounds and panting gasps providing counterpoint.
Just as I've no idea how he knows to begin in earnest, I'm lost as to when he decides to stop. I do know I tingled everywhere, throbbed between my legs, as I stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the fire while he was in the bathroom. I pushed hair back from my heated face.
"I should go," he told me and I nodded, swallowing my pleas for him to stay. To come upstairs. To keep doing things to me. I couldn't resist inviting him back, offering that the door would be open. He smiled, remaining non-committal, and I sat in arousal so sharp I was both baffled and fascinated that I was experiencing it. I slipped out of my tights and, fetching manicure scissors, snipped until the cotton panel was gone, replacing them over my legs and letting my hand drift shyly between, all heat and wetness now exposed.
I slept that way, clad in only a pretty black bra and the now-crotchless tights Will favors.
But he did not return.