Finishing Touches
by Cassie
Clarke, of
As I lay back on the bed I knew it was a bad idea, my spine curving willingly down, my hips tilting upward slightly, an open invitation to something I was almost sure I didn't want.
Steve's wide hand supported my back between my shoulder blades, laying me gently back. He was kissing me the way we had been for the last few weeks, sexy gentle tugs on my lips, tongues lapping lightly, searching for something but not insistent. Slow inquiries, questions about what would come next.
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What would come next? I knew he'd go as far as I was willing to, and though I appreciated his relaxed manner about the whole thing, I couldn't help feeling terrified at being alone in charge of the reigns.
I felt myself soften, opening up to warm, liquid wetness. Every signal my body sent out was a yes, my legs rolling open with undirected abandon, my back arching to press into him as we kissed. I felt his fingers slip underneath my shirt, traveling up the smooth skin of my stomach to cup my breast through my bra. His touch was so light I could hardly feel him there, until he'd move a little, slight pressure from his fingertips signaling his presence.
As he rolled closer to me, I could feel the
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thick hardness in his pants, jutting between us as it had for days now. Always there, solid, a constant reminder of how much more comfortable this would be with him nestled inside me, where he belonged.
But I couldn't, not yet, I couldn't. There was something too precious, too big unfolding before me, something I wanted to hold onto and not break.
I tensed as he began unbuttoning my shirt, and he looked up to meet my worried eyes. Brown pools of concern gazed up at me.
"Nicci," he whispered, "relax. I promise, I'm not going to go any further than you want to."
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