IT’S FOREPLAY (1)

My fingers were just inches from the cleft of her ass as I held her against me in a hard hug.

When I remembered to breathe, I was rewarded with the pressure of her chest against mine, and the elusive scent of her hair. Her hands were warm where they rested, at the small of my back and the blade of my shoulder. The fall of her hair tickled the top of my wrists. My finger traced a short curve against her waist, helplessly testing a long-ago threat.

As the hug went on, my head turned into hers, stubble rasping as my cheek rubbed against hers, and my hands were leaden, heavy with the need to slide down the fabric of her skirt, to cradle the ripeness of her curving buttocks.

My hands slid up slightly as I inhaled against the swell of her breasts, and then down, pinkies pressed against her flesh through her skirt, again seeking but not finding the delicate line of delicate lace.

With heads bowed, the grip of our arms loosened, and we moved back, barely, enough to put my hands on her hips,