The pressure of his hand is a reminder of what I want. Of what I desire. Pushing my body firmly into his, I let him know what I need.
I need is his hands on me. His fingers in me.
He finds the button and undoes it. Wedges his hand between the thin material and my skin.
The pads of his fingertips slowly work themselves further downward. Each inch they travel sends a wave of chills to flow through my body; each nerve ending is pricked alive.
He pushes his hand lower and lower until I feel him trace the lace covering my most intimate spot. A whisper against my sensitive flesh.
“Please,” I moan, rotating my hips to help alleviate the hunger growing inside me. The flimsy material that covers me moves aside and his fingers trace down the seam of my skin. The movements are so slow, every part of my body quivers with anticipation.
When she’s not journaling her life, you can find her window shopping, cooking dinner for her family, or curled up on her couch reading a book.