A Night in a Year: 15. Wandering Hand

[jacquelineb]

When she opens her eyes again, he’s looking pleased, almost annoyingly so. Well, two can play at that, she thinks, forcing a smile which she thinks must look a little mad, full of teeth, but he only chuckles.

How though, she thinks, to move her other arm without jerky movements, without disrupting the spell they are weaving with his touch, her skin, and her breath.

It comes when he flicks his fingertips up, and starts using the edge of his nail on her. The movement is quick, and sends a jolt through her, enough to make her shiver all over, and her other arm drops from the table. He whistles low. He thinks he has the upper hand.

She leans just an inch forward, and her hand easily finds his knee.

There is no reaction on his face at first, no acknowledgement of her grasp. She cups it, finds it like all knees and joints: bony, awkward, dips and furrows you think you know but are still strange when you start to examine them. Especially under the material of his trousers. Like if she would pull it back, she would fine white, exposed bone.

She begins her own tracing exercise, her own exploration. It doesn’t take much to make him shut his eyes, inhale through his nose. His control is good, very good, but he doesn’t open them again, and starts a slow nod as she circles his knees like a crown. The hard, bulbous head of it a perfect place to trace, and not leave.

When his lips part, very slightly, that’s when she leaves it, and splays her hand, fingers grasping all in, up his thigh. The slender, tender flesh beneath the material is so different to the bone of his knees, and she squeezes, her fingers pressing his inner thigh, and at last, he sighs, and it’s audible.

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Next: 16. Retreat

Image found on flickr, by james-nash, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.