If she could

Tonight, if she could, if he were hers and she were his…

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She would have cooked something that was his favorite.  And under the comfortable outfit she had changed into after morning church, she would have put on her raciest undies, just waiting for the chance to show them off.  She’d wait on him, serve him, smile a little more than usual, flirt a little more than usual.  She’d watch him as he took her hand and bowed his head, and she’d hold her breath and remember it wasn’t a dream that he was actually hers.

She’d put away the dishes, and if he helped, she’d bump into him unnecessarily and let her chest brush against his arm.  She’d drop a fork and bend over slowly to pick it up in front of him.  She might even give his backside a little pat as she passed him to put the butter back in the refrigerator.  He’d make a remark and laugh in that voice she knew so well, and if he tried to grab her, she’d slip just out of the way and pretend to scold him.

She might let him flip through the channels a little on the sofa…it would all depend on how patient she thought she could bear to be.  But at some point she’d block his view of the television and straddle his lap.  She’d whisper something much more interesting than a rerun into his ear.  She’d kiss and and kiss him until he was kissing her back in that insistent way with his hand in her hair. He’d take off her shirt and blow out a whistle or sigh at the sight of her bra.  She’d do the same at the sight of his chest before she ran her fingertips through the hair.  Before they were completely naked, she’d take his hand and lead him to the bed room, walking backward so she could look at him all the way down the hall.

She’d take in every inch of him as he stood there, and she’d shiver as he touched her.  She’d savor every moment, read every sound and sigh he made.  She’d learn and relearn all the right spots, all the right kisses, all the right moves, until his knees were weak.  She’d react to every touch and kiss because he always did that to her.  Always.  And when he took her, she would keep her eyes open and watch him watching her.  She’d smile and sigh and moan and wait for his word.

And then she’d let go, they would let go, and his groan would echo in her ears.  She would hold him tightly and love the weight of him over her. She’d keep her hand on him as he rolled over and pull herself to him. She’d whisper endless words of love and inhale him deeply and thank every star in heaven that he was holding her.

If she could.  Every day.  Every night. Forever.

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Taste

Muscular man and sexy girl kneeling before him, close-up
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She wants to taste him

She want to kneel in front of him

Take him in her hand

And feel him against her lips

She wants to trace him with her tongue

Kiss him

Run the flat of her tongue along his underside

Wrapping it around him

She wants to envelop him with her mouth

Sliding

Sucking

Moving her tongue over and over

Against the most sensitive parts

She wants to feel the inside

Of her cheeks against him

To look up at him

Watch his face

Hear him react with pleasure

She wants to feel his hips and thighs

His hand in her hair

Enjoying her movement

Her sucking

Her tongue and lips

Until that moment

When he grabs her hair to hold her still

And thrusts into her

All for him

Faster and harder

Until he is spent

And she swallows

Every

Drop

Senses

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The sound of his voice, softly encouraging

Admonishing, whispering words of love,

His laughter, his deep tones singing along with a cheesy oldie,

The groan of completion when he filled her.

The sight of his eyes, his smile, that slightly crooked nose,

His manly hands, his lean body,

His backside in those jeans.

The taste of his kisses, mixed with a bit of mint,

The sweat on his skin, his manhood.

The smell of him, clean and masculine,

Sometimes with a bit of cologne,

Always with a hint of minty mouthwash,

His sweat and scent after making love.

The feel of his strong arms around her,

The tickle of the hair on his chest against her cheek,

One leg thrown over her, his hand stroking her hair,

Of his movement inside her,

His fingers tangled in her hair or threaded through her fingers,

His hand possessively on her throat.

And that sixth sense,

That knowing she is loved, desired, wanted,

That sense of safety and peace and joy when she is with him,

The connectedness, the sense of being known.

All of it, every single piece and more,

burned onto her heart forever.

L-shaped Desk

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She’s always liked the L-shaped desk in her office.  However, on a Thursday afternoon, she discovered yet another convenience it afforded….partial privacy.

Her desk and computer are situated so that two large monitors cover most of the desk space in front of her.  As luck would have it, the desk has a “modesty panel” across the front as well, so she could basically be nude from the waist down, and no one would be the wiser.

On this Thursday, she couldn’t help allowing her mind to wander, and she found herself crossing and recrossing the legs she had meticulously shaved and lotioned that morning.  The red skirt slid up over her knee and nearly halfway up her thigh, and because no one could see her feet anyway, she freed them from the black heels and wiggled her red painted toenails. The smoothness of her skin sliding against itself was pleasant, but when combined with the words and images…she began to feel the familiar ache low in her belly.  Her satin panties grew damp, and she shifted in her seat.

As her mind wandered, she felt her face begin to flush a bit.  The lining of her matching bra brushed over hardening nipples, and she smiled to herself.  Rocking one foot up and down, she squeezed her thighs together, imagining a large, rough hand sliding up her leg.  Pulling her chair closer, she tucked herself as close to the desk as possible.

Feeling a bit more naughty and daring, she slipped one hand under the desk and stroked the skin behind her knee, her calf, the lower portion of the back of her thigh.  Scooting forward a bit in her chair, she continued rocking almost imperceptibly, keeping one eye on the blinded window as she read the article on her screen.

Her legs seemed to spread of their own accord, causing the skirt to ride higher on her thighs, and her fingertips ventured between them, a bit higher each time, savoring the tension building, the dampness she hadn’t yet touched, the imaginings of other hands slipping under the confines of her pencil skirt.

Finally, in a last surge of bravery, she moved her hand until her fingertips touched the satin between her thighs.  No one would have noticed the little jump of her hips under her desk or the fact that she bit her lip a bit.  Her middle finger danced up and down.  It was just enough sensation to send little jolts through her.

And then she wanted more.  Pressing against her desk, she slipped her index finger between the satin and her skin, and found that button that was aching for attention.  Her finger became wet, so it was easy to imagine a tongue working its magic…over and under, round and round, up and down.  Her thighs clamped around her wrist, and she continued working in smaller and faster circles, holding her breath as her body wound tighter and tighter…

She was silent as the button jerked, and no one saw those spasms under the desk, the ones she kept going as long as possible by pressing the pad of her thumb against herself in a slow rhythm.  Finally, she slumped back in her chair, pulling her skirt down lower on her thighs.

And, after making sure no one was walking by her office, she put two fingertips in her mouth….and sucked.