These are the quiet hours. When skin is warm. When I touch myself where you might. Like this – the lightest touch – and I exhale – the subtext, your name. Fuck. Your name; it traces my hidden curves, the secret edges you long for in your quiet hours. I hear your voice as I imagine you must hear mine. When we are alone. When we are remembering. And aching. And needing more.

My hands dip under the lace of my thong. I slip my hand where yours should be. After all, I shaved earlier last night (maybe… for you… perhaps) and I am smoother than silk. I hear you moan at this. At this, and at this delicious first touch on such secret parts.

Our breath suspends between our lips… so close. I am so close to kissing you but this suspense – we like it. We linger in the way your hands slowly explore – drinking up my heat, my soft, my wet soft heat. You are not as mysterious as you like to think you are; I know you want me to moan. I know you don’t want me to look away. I know you want me to tilt myself open, to lift my hips into the scoop of your clever fingers. I know you want to watch my pleasure build.

In this, you also build to your fullest self – your beautiful cock pulsing with anticipation, heeding the call of what is wild within us. And so, instead: I hold as still as I can. I look deep into your eyes (like I just did what seems like only hours ago) and you become – we become – the kind of lost that somehow feels found.

Fuck. Your hands on me. Oh, fuck.

You work different pressures to test me, to test us. Firm to feather-like and everything in between. You like this tension of wanting, of needing, of being needed so badly that only our breath gives us away. And I like it, too. I love it. I love the way you research my pleasure, I love the gentle ways you pry me open with tender need. Your sweetness, your hunger wrapped up in all that desire is sexier than I can say. When your grip on me grows more intense, as you barely hold yourself back, I realize… I don’t know how much longer I can last.

Your fingers are sweet, sweet melody playing along my hips, between my legs, the silky soft pulse of my inner thighs. You want to whisper, “You are so fucking soft.” Instead, we both say, “Fuck” and kiss. Deeply.

Fuck. Your skin on mine. Oh, fuck.

I can’t help it; I break first. I turn on my side and push my ass into the curve of your lap, pushing up against the wide, thick strength of your thighs.  You pull me closer with one hand and cup my perky breast with the other. My nipples are so hard… wired into my clit – the clit you are now holding between forefinger and thumb. I can’t help it: I moan. I moan the way you like it. (Just like I do now.) In this squirm, this folding of knees, and arching of spines, there is no hiding how much we want. There is nothing more I need right now than to fuck you.

I am the moan you just let out.
Oh, fuck me.
You are the gasp I just let out.

We are the quiet hours no more.

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