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Promise
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Promise Promise The night air is cool. Your thighs are warm, and there is sense of heat at fingertips, as I brush across your underwear, lightly stroke with pressure onto the raised mound of your core. You sigh, and lightly bite your lip, curling your lower lip under your teeth. So sweet, so sexy. And on the plate in front of you, you lift your fork, and to any one else watching seem to absentmindedly move around your slice of dessert. We are in conversation. The night is cool, and we are obviously affectionate to each other, and so are sitting close together. You shiver, and as you do so brave a glance around the room. My fingertips are still swirling, pressing against your heat, sometimes my hand moves slightly, and my fingers move across the soft skin of your inner thigh; my short nails drawing, curling, scraping, lightly dragging across the sensitive skin. You sit up straighter, a warm flush to your face. Nothing surprising. It is cool outside, and inside it is warmer. And you shift your position on your seat again. For now unseen my hand, my palm, has flattened and pressed across your core at the juncture of your thighs. Pressing firmly, my fingers reach further up, and press through the material, trying to find the slight rise of skin, where sits your clit. Those fingers drum at it, press as if kneading dough, moving the skin and flesh around your clit. You squirm, reach under the table yourself, and brush your hand across my thighs, give a firm almost aggressive stroke of the hardness rising beneath the material of my trousers. You lean into me, your lips are at my ear, your hot breath arousing. You seem to steam the words, melting them into my ear. "I have had enough of this dessert, this crowd, this place. Let's go...." you pause, and beneath the table give me a squeeze, "if you can walk that is." You give me a grin, as you lift your fork to scoop the last scrap of your dessert into your mouth. Taking your time to suck every last microscopic morsel off the fork, licking playfully with your pink darting tongue. I can see your nipples taut beneath your top. Note the slight flush of redness to your skin. The animal alertness and shine in your eyes, how your pupils are dilating. I move as if to get up, and in doing so, stroke firmly, caressing with questing fingertips across your core. There is a sensation of moist<b> damp </font></b>heat beneath my fingertips, and a sense of pressing in deeper. fingertips arching to reach in. You twitch, turning the movement into a false yawn, stretching your body upward. And then move my arm and hand aside. You grind out the words, in a low husky whisper. "Now. We. Are. Leaving. Now." I stand, half-turning as I do so, to hide my all too obvious arousal, plucking my coat from the chair, hold it ever so casually in front of me, so deliberately. You grin, as I shuffle forward, as I pretend to be courteous, gentlemanly, in letting you lead. We go out, and at the door, on the edge of the street, the pavement moving with pedestrians we kiss. Deep, long, passionate, and so very promising. The cool air of the night seems to move away from us, for we only feel the heat of each other, tongues tangled, lips consuming, a heat and passion melting. You look at me for the longest time, holding tight, staring into my eyes. You say one word in response to the fire in my own eyes. "Promise." A confirmation not a question. As tangled as a set of ipod headphones, we weave down the street, in orbit of each other. In orbit of our desire. Touching, reaching, kissing; a promise of dance soon to be. Thoughts in sensual pleasure to erotic writing writ. Feel free to travel - click - to my blog: An exploration introduction |
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