She stands directly in front of me. Within the circle of my arms if I were to reach. Knees almost touching the bed on either side of me. Her pussy so close, that if I were to lean forward…
Maybe I began to incline forward, maybe it was just the angle of shadow as the curtain shifted in front of the open window.
I look down.
Her feet are elegant. Shapely. Toenails as red and glossy as fresh blood. She wiggles the toes. They mark an impatience as clear as the steady slap of her hand against her thigh. Keeping time or marking the beats to the question I haven’t answered.
I look up, following the rounded smoothness of her calf to the line of shadow between her thighs, the angle of hands on hips, the jut where her weight on one foot cocks out her hip.
Slowly making my way up until our eyes meet. Her face is in the light. Radiant. Distant from my perch at the end of the bed, the geometry of her face starkly beautiful and haughty.
She leans toward me. I know by the way she arches her back that she is close enough to feel my breath.
“No touching,” she whispers, so low it is almost a moan.
“No touching,” I sigh.
Her hand slides between her legs as if to hold my breath there. Her fingers slip between the parted lips. When she brings them out, I see the shine from her moisture.
Without thinking, my hand moves to the swollen head of my cock.
A bead of sweat trickles down from between her breasts and slowly, slowly, across the roundness of her belly.
“Take off your robe.”
“On your stomach.”
It is hard to breathe, as if we have ascended to some higher altitude where the air is thin.