There’s this picture of you in my head.
It comes up at random times. It’s a memory of when we were. You’ve just pulled on your jeans, dark-blue, rugged, sturdy-looking, slim cut Levi’s.
Thinking back now, I ought to have stolen those jeans from you; I should have just put them on and be on my merry way. No mind that they would’ve been (and still are) a good number of inches too long. But I wasn’t thinking about that at that point. I was thinking about your ass.
The way the last rays of the evening sun hit your back through the striped curtains, casting patterns on your smooth, brown back. I always said you stole your sister’s share of the family butt. Along with the lips and nails. You could’ve have been pretty, in another life, if you weren’t so rugged and manly.
The way the jeans slide over your butt, the way they seem to cup your butt so gently, I’m jealous. My dress comes back off again. I watch you, eagerly, like a lioness watching her prey, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. I relish those moments before I go in for the kill almost as much as I love the kill itself.
Your hands are raised above your head as you try to put your white t-shirt on. It’s the perfect opportunity and I’m at your back in one swift move. You feel my bare nipples press into your back at the same time my teeth bite the skin at your left side. A low groan.
You drop the t-shirt and face me. Your lips are forming some sort of protest. My lips are on tours before you can articulate them. I’m high off my desire for you. I want you to taste it on my tongue, to get intoxicated by the raw, unbridled lust you inspire in me.
My hands snake around your waist and find my way into the back pockets of your jeans. I grab handfuls of your sexy butt and you laugh into my mouth. Your big hands roam over my naked body, tickling, teasing, caressing, till you arrive at my ass.
You grab my butt, run your hands all over me, your nails raking over my soft flesh. I moan softly. I want you. You reply by telling me I need to be at home soon. I’ve got a pile of paperwork to attend you. I shut you up with a kiss.
First on your juicy, pink lips, as my hands run through that black jungle of hair on your head. Then to your neck. Little bites down your neck, interspersed with kissing. I feel your hard-on through your jeans and it only amplifies my lust.
I make my way down your body, till I’m at your jeans.
I undo the button and lower the zip. Your straining cock looks at me. We need to be reintroduced. I lick my lips absently as my hands free your penis from it’s denim cage.
My lips around your shaft, your head thrown back, hands in my hair, urging me on. You tell me to stop suddenly and move away. I watch you wordlessly walk to the table and pick up a condom. Durex. Featherlite. Any other time, we’d have a detailed conversation on why that’s your preferred choice. But right now, all I can think about is you. Inside me.
You draw your hot, throbbing sword and walk back to me. You lift me off the bed where I was kneeling and pin me against the wall. No words are necessary. My moans as you slide in and out of me fill the silence.
I shut my eyes and try to give in to the sensations coursing through my body. “Open your eyes.”
It’s not a request and my eyes fly open as the words leave your mouth. You look right into my eyes, like you’re staring deep into my soul.
You slow down. You kiss me. Your thrusts are deliberate and slow and you watch my hips undulate in a vulgar dance. More, more they seem to chant as my waist does impossible things. I try to coax more pleasure out of your thrusts, arching this way and that, but you control this dance. You refuse to change your pace to suit me, and suddenly you’re doing something to me I can only describe as thorough fucking.
My walls start to tighten. I feel that delicious, familiar tension between my legs. I try to hold on, to make it last longer, but each stroke you give me drives me closer and closer do the edge. One more thrust. You bury yourself inside me. I start to convulse. My body vibrating of it against yours. I claw into your back. My eyes roll back.
La Petite Mort.
You’re wearing those same jeans now as I watch you work the crowd. With a glass of red wine in hand, my back against the wall, I watch you tell a joke to a very wealthy businessman with a thing for surrealist art. It’s a great collection. I’d be prouder if I wasn’t so horny.
I walk up to you, discreetly slip a serviette into your palm and walk off. I try to imagine the look on your face when you read my little note.
“Coat closet. Five minutes.”