I can’t feel enough of him or taste enough of his kisses and when he drags his lips down my throat to my collarbone, I want more. More kisses, more touches, more of his body pressed against me, his skin touching mine.
I tug the hem of his shirt up and he pulls away long enough to yank it over his head then gazes down at me with wild eyes and swollen lips.
“If you want to stop …”
I pull him back down. If that isn’t answer enough, there isn’t going to be one. My hands explore as he lowers his head and takes one taut n****e into his mouth. I arch my back and hold him against me.
The nostalgia is nice, but he’s different. More man than boy. More experienced. I would probably be jealous if I had the capacity to think deeper about it, but the things he’s doing with his mouth and his hands ov
