Touch
Touch may be considered one of five human senses; however, when a person touches something or somebody this gives rise to various feelings: the perception of pressure (hence shape, softness, texture, vibration, etc.), relative temperature and sometimes pain.
It was like they had a mind of their own, my hands roamed endlessly over her body, making her sigh, making her bite her lip, making her fingers dig into my shoulders. I couldn't stop them, and if I was honest with myself, I didn't want to stop.
Touching her was something that I had always loved doing; she was so receptive to my touch. Hours seemed liked minutes with her skin under my fingers. It wasn't like a romance novel when "time stopped when we're together", time flew, it always did, I never seemed to have enough time, I never seemed to get enough.
I could never work out which part of her I loved touching most. Sometimes it was where her neck met her shoulders, a passing, brief touch that lingered slightly longer that usual, making her skin break out in goose pimples. Sometimes it was her stomach, I would lay my hand flat against it feeling it rise and fall with each breath she took, or clench involuntarily when my hand drifted slightly lower, or quiver with laughter. Sometimes, it was the milky smoothness of her inner thighs, skin which I prayed to God only I was allowed to touch now. I would trace patterns on them, listening to her beg for more as my fingers once again took on a mind of their own. Sometimes it was the simplest touching which drove me mad. Her fingers grazing mine as I hand her something, her lips brushing my temple when she thinks I'm asleep.
As much as I love touching her with my finger tips, I love touching her more with my mouth, bringing my lips down onto her shoulder, her neck, feeling the smooth skin beneath my lips, feeling her nipples pebble in my mouth. Feeling her lips against mine is a feeling that I am hard pushed to beat. Her lips are always so soft and warm, coaxing me to take things further, begging me to dispense with the foreplay, saying she needs to feel me inside her. Oh God and when I am inside her it drives me over the edge of madness and I swear, for a few minutes, I think I am crazy, because how sane is it to be obsessed with touching someone? Or that someone touching you?
The feel of her small delicate hand stroking my cheek, even if it is a stolen caress in a rarely deserted corridor, makes me want to push her against a wall and feel her skin under my hands, feel her heart beat hard and fast under my finger tips, feel the warmth between the thighs which I love so much, feel her breath on my shoulder and her legs wrapped around my waist when I give into temptation, who knew her skin would be a temptation to me?
Her knowing smile from the walkway above the bullpen also touches me, because I know what she is thinking, I know she is thinking of the last time I touched her, the last time I let my hands loose on her skin. But I don't need to dwell on the past; I have the rest of my life to touch her.
V!
xox