She turns.
My heart skips a beat.
I can see everything.
Her private parts?—
She leans onto the sink.
Her head tilted.
The corner of her mouth tugs into a mischievous smirk.
She pushes the bathroom door open with the toes of her outstretched leg.
And then she just stands there, one leg crossed over the other, leaning slightly back with her immaculate skin.
I don’t know how much time passes while I watch her.
And then, she pushes herself off the sink.
She walks over to me, naked as she is.
The amount of confidence she must have.
She stops in front of me. She is close, so close I can feel the heat radiating from her body. But she doesn’t touch me.
“Do I have the permission to touch you?” she asks.
It was one question. One question that pushes me over the edge.
“Yes,” I breathe out in my amazement.
Her hand brushes through my wet hair, trails down my neck, to my wet blouse, where she opens the buttons. Slowly, deliberately, carefully adapting to my needs.
Her palms on my chest.
A tingling sensation surges through me.
My breath fastens.
Her hands slide up to my shoulders underneath the fabric as she pushes the wet blouse down. The feeling is horrible, but I don’t register it. My focus is with her. And the desire I feel for her.
It rushes silently to the floor.
She trails ever so softly with her fingers over my arms.
A shudder of epic proportions causes me to close my eyes and let my head fall back.
Her body is so close to mine, as her lips brush with the least possible contact from my collarbone up to my ear.
She is so…gentle.
Consumingly gentle.
Present.
Leaving me only with the desire to become one with her.
