dragging his hand up my thigh,
slipping us under my dress.
Air spills from his lips in one long pull,
and his fingers tremble under mine as we drift over my hip, smothering the chill, leaving a hot trail in their wake.
Goosebumps fan out across my skin.
He notices.
I know in the way his hand lifts a hair under mine,
enough to brush my skin gently.
As if he needs to feel what he’s doing to me.
Then when we glide across my stomach,
I curl into his fingers—a ticklish reflex.
He notices.
I know in the way his grin presses against my cheek, slow and wicked.
When he dips into the hollow of my sternum,
I hold my breath.
He notices, and lingers there,
fingers tracing the ridge of bone.
And when he reaches my ribs,
he holds me closer,
his thumb gently brushing over each one,
unhurried.
Inch by inch,
he’s learning me,
mapping me,
reading me,
taking his time.
Then I realize…
I’mlettinghim touch me.
And I don’t want him to stop.
I drag his hand higher.
