I *will* come back to this.

Nails slide across my skin, tripping the light pressure receptors, making the fine hairs rise. My eyes drift closed and I can almost pretend I don't know where the nails will touch down next.

Across my stomach: the memory of your palms on my belly when you wake up starts a slow burn from gut to core. Up my thighs: I can almost feel the soft hairs that cover your legs brushing against my skin. Lazy trails along my collarbone, around the sides of my breasts: I crave your callouses, your warmth, your weight...

Thumbs stroke nipples, skim the ridges of puckering flesh. Press the hardened nubs between thumb and forefinger. Harder, sparking that sweet icewhite fire. Harder, and feel the slow burn burst into slickness. Now we're getting somewhere.

...

"God, you're wet," was the first thing you said, the first time you touched me. I was a little relieved that my body hadn't let me down, but at the same time, a little embarrassed by how enthusiastically it had responded.

To give you room to work, I slid my belt free of its loops. You stopped me before I could do more, though. "If you start that, we won't stop." Bit my tongue against asking what made you think we'd stop from here? "Let me relieve the pressure," you said. "You must be wound tighter than a clock."

I was. But the fast, light circles you were tracing only wound me tighter still. You held on to me like you thought I would fly to pieces when I came. I think I nearly did. Fully clothed and clutching your free hand like it would keep me from falling off the world. I'd never been so scared or so happy.

...

Fast, light circles, round and round. I can hear thoughts turning to whitenoise and I'm as wet as the first morning, but I can't find your free hand...

...

Your fingertips across my neck, my back, my shoulders, gathering every last flyaway hair into your other hand. I try to keep my face neutral, but it's hard to do when you're being so subtle and sweet in broad daylight. How often had I mentioned wondering how your hands in my hair would feel? Once? Twice? And so here you are, creating our own little bubble in all the crowd and hubbub around us.

Then you squeeze. Slowly, gently, and I know you've got more. More power, more force. But you don't use it. You don't have to. I can feel it waiting in your hands. Strong hands that're ready to catch me if I sway. This is how it feels.

The blissed-out smile spreads across my face, warm as the sunlight that just broke the clouds above us. I don't realise I'm beaming like an idiot until you let go, run fingers through in parting, and I look over to see a mutual friend looking a question at you. We're made, but oddly enough, that's alright.

One fantasy down, I can almost hear you saying. The rest of them to go, if you'll come to me.

...

One hand buried in my hair, this clench is nothing like the promise of April. More like the half blind hold you take when I take you in my mouth. God, the texture of you...woven silk over stone, only stone doesn't hold heat that way, doesn't pulse with its own life, doesn't move so satisfyingly at the faintest touch of teeth. Stones don't gasp when I flick them with my tongue.

I want your cock right now so badly I can taste it. And honestly, I don't care how I get it.

Fingers slide home and stretch--has it been that long?. Hook. And there's that beautiful patch of flesh, there's the spot you know so well how to exploit. The gasp is free of my lips before I can stop it; the scent of sex rises with the rhythm of movement.

...