Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
The rain moves in again; this time with the promise of a longer shower. We stand inside the doorway, just out of reach to the probing, but warm drops and survey the sky. Maybe, we’ll get lucky. Perhaps the clouds will pass quickly as they have all day and we can move back outside and finish the tasks at hand.
The comfortable closeness we share becomes steamy as the heat and humidity in the room increases. Summer showers are remarkable in their smells, sounds and ability to change the taste of the air.
As you stand close, I can feel the heat radiating from your arms and chest. We’re dripping from the surprising swiftness of the shower and, as we lean in the doorway, my mind shifts from thinking about the weather to breathing in your scent. It’s a damp smell with other foreign notes: sawdust, motor oil, dry grass. It’s an odd combination but wonderfully masculine and distracting.
We move further into the room, winding around the detritus of the garage, moving away from the sheet of water that leaves no promise of an early finish.
Our hands find things to touch. Wrenches, boxes, wood scraps. Replacing, restoring and setting items back in their places.
We revolve around each other, lost in our own thoughts. I can’t help but be relieved by the rain. I’ve spent the day watching you twist and bend. Watching from behind as you lean over the engine or straddling you with the light as you lie flat under the car; waist and long legs visible but nothing else.
I’ve imagined raking my hands across your back, your chest, filling them up with your body all day. My small, seemingly accidental touches not registering with you but sending volts of need through my body. Brushing a few blades of grass from your hair has enough energy to ignite paper. The challenge to make contact with your skin when handing over tools is a frustrating one-person game and I gain only a few points.
With everything returned to its place, I lean against the door frame again and feel your presence behind me. Your hand on my arm causes me to jump and I watch your other hand take my own and examine the smudges and dirt.
There’s a bathroom in back and I turn and follow you back to scrub away proof of the afternoon, resigned to the rain, to the end of day filled with my own longing and shared innuendo, to another round of frustrating thoughts and fantasies with no culmination.
I stop at the doorway and wait for you to allow me to pass through first. As I move through, in to the room, I turn to the sink, refusing to look in the mirror. I can feel the sadness; I don’t need to see it. I reach for the soap and turn on the water as the door closes behind me.
An unexpected buca escort bayan movement jerks my eyes to the mirror and am caught in your gaze, trapped as certainly as a fly in a web. Holding your gaze, I ask the question with my eyes and brows but I can’t read the answer though it seems my blood already knows.
The answer is singing through my body, in and out, my heart beating a rhythm of understanding as I step aside to allow you to share the stream of water and place the slippery bar of soap in your hand.
The soap falls and your large hands envelop mine removing excess bubbles, massaging them into both sets of dirty hands. As we hold them under the stream, my eyes focus on the gray water and suds swirling in the sink and the flash of your fingers twining through mine, cleaning and stroking.
In these moments, no words have been uttered. Only the sound of the running water is present to break the growing silence.
You reach to shut off the water as I pull a towel down from the rack. Dry now, my hands wrap the towel around yours and I dare to raise my eyes to yours. As our gaze meets, your hands lock around mine and you raise both of my arms over my head spinning me around so I’m pressed to the back of the door.
My breathing has quickened perceptibly and my arms, held high over my head, force my heaving chest to be the next focus of your attention. Removing one hand from holding my wrists, I watch in the mirror at the reverse of these movements. Your hand drops to my shoulder pushing my t-shirt to the side to touch the flaming skin. One long finger traces my collar bone to my throat and down the center of my chest dragging the front of my t-shirt down to expose what surely must be glowing skin.
Fingertips move over the top of my shirt, ever lower. Tips brushing over the tops of my breasts. It feels as if the fabric is burned away by this movement. Your fingers trace the outline of my bra through my shirt, spending excruciating moments on the stone tips that were once soft and sensitive.
I am unable to bite back the gasp that comes with the touch. I watch your head dip in the mirror at the same time that I feel the heat of your breath through my shirt. Teeth graze and the pain is tenable. My knees fold and I find myself supported by one long, lithe thigh wedged between mine.
I regain my footing as your lips close over me through my shirt and the thin pink satin cup. The undergarment was chosen despite knowing its complete inappropriateness for dirty garage work. I can feel your tongue burning through the fabric as it grows damp and the writhing flesh underneath struggles to free itself.
I risk escort buca another glance in the mirror and drag my eyes over your narrow waist, your back, your head bent over my chest, watching your movements causes difficulty in drawing the next breath.
Taking advantage of your distraction, I tug my hands from your grip and bury them in your hair pulling your mouth impossibly further down. I am nearly crazy with agonizing pain and desire.
A few hesitant steps forward propels us toward the shower and, surprisingly, you don’t resist as I steer you backwards toward the cool, tile wall. I risk a final glance in the mirror and catch the sparkling curiosity in your eyes.
We stop when your back reaches the wall and I drag your rain soaked shirt over your head. I can’t stop to slowly explore as my hands give in to their need to touch every inch of your chest and back without delay. Your own hands rest lightly on my shoulders watching my movements with obscene patience.
I look up into your face. Am I asking permission? For what, you don’t know but your lips dip to meet mine and I open my mouth willingly. I am anxious to know your taste and am rewarded by the sweetness that fills my mouth. The kiss is interminable and brief at the same time. The feel of your hands again buried in my hair affords more time for this exploration of your mouth with mine, your body with my hands.
My lips leave yours to trail across your chin, jaw and down your neck to your shoulders. I feel my shirt rise and lean back to allow it to slide over my head. Burning skin on burning skin feels strangely cool and I move my mouth along the top of your chest, nails scratching gently at your nipples as my lips finally reach them.
They are instant diamonds at the touch of my tongue as I circle one and scratch at the other. Now it’s me bracing you against the wall, preventing your collapse but only barely.
The ebb and flow of pressure from my mouth is a movement as old as song and I can feel your response to this throughout your body.
Your telling heat and unyielding strength encourages my descent and I move my mouth ever lower. My hands on your hips now, I drag your body closer to me and tease my teeth over the lines of your stomach, biting and tasting.
Your breathing is ragged and your hands grip and release my hair, my cheeks, my shoulders. I smile to myself at your conscious effort to restrain yourself or, at the least, your hands. My lips reach your waistband and I bring my fingers to the fastener at the top. I smile again when I realize that you’re holding your breath despite the ragged beating of your heart that can be felt all over the buca escort surface of your skin.
Quickly the button is released and the humid jeans are dragged down and away from your body. My lips return to find their last place. Stomach muscles are taut while thigh muscles quiver beneath my breasts which are pressed against them tightly.
My lips dance across cool cotton breathing, tasting, memorizing. My hands grip the backs of your thighs forcing you closer to me. The quivering is pronounced and is almost a shiver.
Cotton gone and a warm, musky heat invades my mind as my mouth finds its way to you. Your body sinks a bit and your mind fights to command it to remain standing. I pause to consider who might win and feel you straighten slightly.
I continue my downward movement, creating a repeating rhythm with my mouth and tongue. My nails scratch the inside of your thighs enough to cause a second unique feeling. Not pain but definitely not gentle.
Your uneven breath is my reward as I increase the tempo, the coordination of my hands. I pause to look up at your face. Your eyes are closed and your lips are slightly parted.
I realize that I’ve stopped when your eyes open and meet mine and with remarkable speed I am on my back and, once again, find my arms restrained over my head by one of your hands as the other removes my jeans with ridiculous ease.
Your hand forces my legs apart and I wrap them up and around your waist. You grasp my head and drag my mouth toward yours. Your lips conquer mine and your tongue forges its own path. I am lost in this kiss when I feel myself open to accept you. The unbelievable heat breaks the kiss and I bury my face in your neck concentrating on the closeness of our bodies, the need to be certain that there is no space between us while circling my hips around you, drawing you as deeply as possible into me.
My hands flutter over your back, circle your waist, and tug gently at your hips. Their movements are involuntary as every cell is trained on the waves of movement and resulting needles of pleasure that result.
We are moving faster, synchronized with the thrumming rain on the window. I am falling over the edge. Your breathing shifts and I feel your body tighten as you follow me over the edge. I am locked in your arms that hold me tightly against your chest. I can’t raise my head and I’m not sure I want to.
The physical feelings are tapering off leaving ripples of electric memory in their wake. I lower my legs and trace my nails over your back gently waiting for the physical feelings to be overtaken by residual emotion and pleasure.
I risk a glance and am rewarded with a wry smile and read something in your eyes. Words are an anathema at this moment and I silently beg for no sound. A joke will spoil, a cautionary word will destroy. I wait. Resigned and wondering which you’ll choose?
You open your mouth, I tense and it closes over mine. I fall away again.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32