It's a cold December night and we're cozy on the bed.
I've bought a book for nights like this, recalling how nobody ever read you fairy tales when you were a child. It saddened me, knowing what you missed on.
So I bought this book, imagining how nice it would feel to have you close as I take care of your inner child, but I couldn't foresee how it'd make you feel.
As I'm reading, lay on my back with you by my side creeping over to see the illustrations and ready to correct every word I mispronounce, I feel your hands just above my knee.
You just can't help it, the needy mess you become when we're close.
I don't point it out, I don't want to embarrass you. I keep on reading, I try to ignore the way you adjust my leg to have my thigh fitting comfortably between yours.
As I turn yet another page, I feel your hot breath on my ear way before I can hear a not-so-suppressed moan, I haven't failed to notice how you've started grinding down my thigh.
Again, I could call you out, I could address it but I'm curious to know how far you'll go. I can feel your wetness on my leggings, the cold that comes from the pool you've left on me when you move your legs to readjust your grip. To get better access, more friction, whatever it is that you need to get off.
You seem to find what you're looking for, because even if you manage to keep it quiet, I've learnt to recognise the telltale signs of your peak.
The way your breath catches in your throat, your nails leaving their marks on my skin, even if you're gripping on my sleeve. The long sigh that comes after, softly caressing the upper part of my neck.
I feel your nose poking at my jaw and I turn my head to kiss you.
To this day, I still don't know what got you so flustered. Surely not the innocent story I was reading to you.
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