You touched me--really touched me--before I touched you. It's not that I hadn't wanted to. My hands already knew your public body well--how often had our fingers tangled, sweaty and sensitive as you hummed your pleasure into my mouth, our kisses winding on and on and on…My thumb knew the soft short hair at the nape of your neck, and my fingers had caressed the smooth curve of your cheekbone a thousand times. Your shoulders, the long lovely sweep of your back and the surprisingly muscular lines of your arms had long been mine to know. Your hands--clever and small and neat, and due better words than I can weave--had touched me similarly, but we had kept the touches almost chaste by unspoken agreement.
When you finally slid your hand beneath my shirt and onto my skin I thought I might die. I gasped so loudly that you froze, and we both began to laugh.
"Should I stop?"
I regained my breath and grinned at you. "If you do I may go mad," I said honestly.
"Then I won't," you said, and you didn't.