She stands at the foot of the bed and tells me to show her. To let her watch. Just for a moment.
It won’t count at all.
Both of us make promises.
My hand moves slowly, resisting the temptation out of habit and old rules. When she lifts her shirt, a hint of tummy and the curve of a breast, I don’t stop. As she kneels on the bed, still far enough away to deny everything, I can picture it.
When I finally release myself to her view, she gasps in delight and I have to remind myself nothing will happen. Her hand slides below elastic eliciting moans and the silhouette of her fingers inside herself.
I won’t touch you, she tells me, pushing her shorts down so I can see her too. Closer and closer she moves, our hands curious and daring and our bodies taking over for our exhausted minds.
I can smell her when she licks her fingers.
Hovering above me, it’s too much to resist. We know if we touch it will end. It will have to because one of us will have broken the rule, but right there, her body wet and ready, mine hard and glistening, we live in between right and wrong.
If I lift up even a sliver, I’ll be inside her. If she bends her knees slightly, she’ll take me in.
We stay there forever.