He is touching her, just not the way he wants to, and not the way she wants him to touch her. It would be like playing Twister, with thighs here and knees here and hands here, bent and twisted and not enough room to move with her hands against the firm muscles of his abdomen and the concave curve of her stomach, the arcs of her hipbones [he loves the way his wet fingers leave swirls over them when he strokes her, twirls his fingers; it's so fucking hot to see the designs shine in the daylight]. Her hands are perfect as they glide over his skin. He has to give her credit for being experimental, for trying different things to gauge what he likes and to see how he reacts to the way she presses the tip of her finger down against a nerve, or the way she flicks his tip [the mohel did a good job, baby, don't you like it?]. The way she strokes him, with the right pressure and the right twist and a fuckton of enthusiasm, makes him even more positive that he's going to embarrass himself.
At least, given that, she answers the where question pretty quickly. He can feel the drag of the jersey as she drags it up her torso; her skin is hot against his, and he has a feeling that he's going to nail most of the sheets with the way they rest together, on their sides. It doesn't matter; she's Rachel, and they're there, and laundry's stupid. "Aaah," he moans at the touch of her lips. [She found one of his sensitive spots; his cock jerks in her hand, dribbling slickly.] His hips rock harder, and he bumps against her stomach-and-hipbone with every thrust, every twist of her fingers. "Rach... fuck, Rach." More moaning follows her name, punctuated with gasps of breath and harder thrusts; he turns his head, searching blindly for her lips and thrusts hard against her body, spilling in pearly ribbons over her stomach and ribs.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2011-11-17 05:33 am (UTC)At least, given that, she answers the where question pretty quickly. He can feel the drag of the jersey as she drags it up her torso; her skin is hot against his, and he has a feeling that he's going to nail most of the sheets with the way they rest together, on their sides. It doesn't matter; she's Rachel, and they're there, and laundry's stupid. "Aaah," he moans at the touch of her lips. [She found one of his sensitive spots; his cock jerks in her hand, dribbling slickly.] His hips rock harder, and he bumps against her stomach-and-hipbone with every thrust, every twist of her fingers. "Rach... fuck, Rach." More moaning follows her name, punctuated with gasps of breath and harder thrusts; he turns his head, searching blindly for her lips and thrusts hard against her body, spilling in pearly ribbons over her stomach and ribs.