Letter to a Friend

by Goldenleaf 1510

Written to a friend on the BN forum, in response to her sharing of several wet t-shirt photos of Michael entering the loft at the end of Hot Spot. I only intended to write the first two sentences. My first published work. Ever. ETA: a little smutty.

Letter to a Friend.

Sent 26 October 2010 - 03:46 AM

Wet Michael. Um, I can't imagine why you keep mentioning him. Not at all. Not even a little. Really. Why would you spend even an extra minute or hundred, contemplating that shirt clinging to that torso like a second skin? Imagining, perhaps, laying your hands on those cold wet pectoral muscles? Feeling his cold, hard nipples beneath the soaking fabric? And feeling his heart pounding beneath your hands? Watching him breathe? And feeling his breath against your cheek as you try to warm him by pressing against him, enveloping his strong, shivering, trembling frame in your delicate pale arms? Unaware that the wetness of his shirt is soaking through your sheer nightgown, defining the shape of your breasts and nipples? Why would you want to imagine those arms, cold and wet, wrapping around you as his hands tangle in your hair? Why would the pain and relief in his deep blue eyes, from which a single tear has escaped, to trail down his cheek and mingle with the raindrops there, affect you so thoroughly that you want to cry with him? Why would you let this waterlogged and dripping man, who has been so strong for so many, reveal his inner pain to only you, and why would you want to kiss it away after first tasting the drops that have collected on his lip and chin and cheeks and eyelids and the very tip of his nose? Why do you think that you would slowly peel the wet shirt up, starting with your hands at the top of his jeans, which ride low on his hips. Your fingers would feel the hard muscles inches below his navel before they graze up and grip the lower edge of that wet shirt, and as you pull it up he stands still, letting it pull away from his skin. He lifts his arms and tucks his chin so that you can pull the shirt up and over his head and off. Why would you imagine that you might playfully rub it over his dripping hair before dropping it to the floor and kissing his exposed chest, sucking his hard nipples and pulling him close to you to warm him with the entire length of your body as your fingertips trace little circles on his back, where the dimples are above his ass? Why on earth would you imagine, that your hands might drift to the front of his jeans, and unbuckle them, unzip them, and reach slowly in, feeling the head of his cock RIGHT THERE at the top of the waistband, flaunting the fact that he is NOT wearing his speedo under his clothes as he ought? Why would you consider lowering your head to kiss the cold away from this most warm and firm part of him, tenderly, gently, relishing the soft moans you elicit from him?
And why would you finally imagine tumbling him into your bed, to warm him and dry him and love him as he embraces you and enters you as you both have wanted since the moment he walked into the room?

I can't imagine.