It’s not late yet. I’m reading a book but it’s not riveting by any stretch. He’s gently tracing patterns on the smooth strip of skin next to my panties. I shaved this morning so, despite a little 5-o-clock shadow it feels pretty good.
He’s not trying to start anything, it’s just something he does when we’re reading at night, the way some people twirl a strand of their hair around a finger.
Mostly it’s a comforting feeling. Soothing.
Tonight it’s utterly distracting. Intricate whorls of Celtic knots getting friction burned into the joint between body and limb. The skin is so sensitive there. He stays outside the boundaries, though, sliding down the rim of practical elastic on my granny panties, his hand partly covered by my over-sized t-shirt.
He needs to make a move.
I haven’t turned a page in five minutes and he’s still chastely doodling on my thigh.
Perhaps if I time it just right I can turn and use the momentum to get his finger underneath.
I concentrate on the rapid circling of his fingers and just at the right second I flip onto my back.
He, of course, lifts his hand out of my way.
“Good.” His open palm smoothes over my upper thigh and re-adjusts himself to continue stroking me.
This is foolish. I need to just go to sleep.
But. If I bend my knee maybe the material will gap a little and he’ll get on the right path.
Making a show of stretching I slowly raise my right knee.
The elastic gaps just a bit.
He smoothes is down against me and continues tracing the lyrics to my insanity.
Oh for cripes sake!
I toss my book onto the floor, roll over abruptly away from his maddening hand, turn off the light and close my eyes.
“Don’t forget to set the alarm.” It comes out a lot more like my petulant 14-year-old self than the assured and controlled thirty-something woman I meant it to be.
“Will do,” and he chuckles.
For agonizing minutes he turns pages in oblivion.
Eventually he turns off his light. I feel him roll toward me and I resolve to feign sleep.
I am mortified. This is an embarrassment of need. I’ve known this man more than a decade and we’re not supposed to be driven mad by each other anymore. We’re adults, desire can wait, be given its own time.
Many days, most of them, it is. I can happily look forward to an evening planned at home or to meeting him on a business trip and explore our passion then. We’ve got plenty of it saved up. I shouldn’t be a slave to it on an ordinary frumpy Tuesday night.
I want more so badly I am almost in tears. And he doesn’t even notice.
He snuggles an arm underneath my head, his other wormed over my waist, thumb chastely strumming my ribs. He uses that hand to scoot me back toward him so we are spooned firmly against each other.
He does notice.
That hand abandons my ribs and finally insinuates itself below the first date underwear. One long middle finger starts at my clit and descends to find the well. Picking up some juice it slides back up to my clit. Those same intricate swirls from my thigh played out on my pussy. I am holding my breath in anticipation of the penetration.
Down, up, around, down.
“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
Never breaking stride.
“This torture…will…kill me…and…you’ll mi…miss me…when…I’m gone.”
Ah! On gone he finally sheathes a finger.
It’s out as quickly as it went in. Grazes my clit then…Ah! Joined by another, and a third. It’s awkward, I’m half turned back again but he manages to get the heel of his hand positioned right and applies firm, rocking pressure until the tears squeeze out of my eyes, I can hardly breathe and finally…
Minutes pass. Could be hours before the light returns to my eyes.
“I have no idea.”