She makes her way to the edge of the bed like a broken runner. One hip at a time. Deliberate. Calculated. Every step maximized.
The light blue Oxford hangs half-hazard off her left shoulder, porcelain skin glowing under whispy tendrils of auburn hair. Buttons askew, sleeves rolled unevenly over her small but toned arms, the shirt tail dangles loosely somewhere between heaven and her knees.
Her lips are swollen and fiery red from games already played. Now, her body has started a new game. She is smooth as silk, sweet as honey and deadly as the sins they cover in sweaty sheets. She moves around him and through him and over him and he wonders if death indeed could be as sweet as this.
His fingers fumble, fatigued from earlier pleasures but the pearl buttons give way and he slides the breasts of his shirt over the breasts on her chest. The silence is broken by the moans from her lips, the stillness shattered by the urgent grinding of her hips.
The soft cotton of the shirt teases sensations from his skin that mingle with the electricity of her heat surrounding his erection. Moments that could have been a lifetime ago, she climbed from his bed naked, grabbing the pale blue fabric in habitual modesty and padded to the bathroom. Her steps unsteady and slight, her muscles spent in former exertions.
Something changed in that tiny washroom for when she emerged her eyes were brimming with seduction. She wore his shirt in a way he'd ever seen her wear anything.
He is spent, exhausted and used up. But to deny his aching flesh the secrets promised underneath his shirts would be sinful. He is bursting with the energy of a high-school baller, not an ounce of give-up in site. She is tantalizing, exotic in the erotic way only a woman can be wearing wrinkled 100% cotton that smells of cologne and coffee and forgotten basement offices.