Whisky Kisses

On him, a faint hint of the days travel. He smelled like a man. Like the mountains of Montana. And he felt like a man. Solid with muscles. Strong. Holding me so close to him. The hair on his chest pressed against my back and without a thought I reached behind me for his leg. His muscular frame defined beneath my touch. A runner's thigh. Tight, flexing calf as he tucks his knees up under me. An unfamiliar body that I instinctively melted in to.

I move to him. To take his hand, thick and masculine, and weave my fingers between his. Instinctively he squeezes and pulls me closer. Comfort turns to anticipation when I take his face in my hands. Soft whiskers from a weeks worth of growth like cashmere against my palms, I pull his lips to mine. Controlled breathes beneath whiskey kisses.

No words, just exquisite touches. Tactile introductions flow a welcome for his fingers, and his tongue swims in the ecstasy flooding from me. He is strong and firm with me. Moves slowly, restrained purpose. Calculated as he listens to my exhales. My moans. Watches my body squirm as he pushes me further. And closer. His touch should feel new and uncertain, but it isn't. He doesn't fumble. He knows exactly how to stir me, like he has studied me for years before. His fingers move around me and in me in the same way I touch myself. He is in my head. Inside me feeling what I feel. And I am in the moment. Every moment. In that room. My mind never straying. Completely aware that it is him and no one else.

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