Friends kiss.
Friends fuck, too.
Just because I swore off men doesn’t mean I have to swear off sex, although the two do go hand in hand nicely. Vibrators obviously do not count, nor does using my own hand. And why should I deprive myself if I’ve changed my mind? I’m allowed to do that—I wasn’t anticipating meeting a guy like Roman when I decided to go on a detox.
He was a pleasant surprise I never would have predicted.
I want him so bad, and not because he’s changed position so his big dick is pressed into the side of my hip.
Okay—that’s one of the reasons.
But not the only reason.
Okay fine—maybe right now that’s the only reason, plus I mentioned he smells like a wet dream, yeah?
I inhale a breath when Roman’s hand does the one thing I never thought it would do: travel north. Tentatively…so tentatively I may lose my mind, but north it goes in the direction of my breasts, and thank God I didn’t put a bra on earlier when I was pouting and wanted to leave.
Damn fool.
Roman’s hand stops roaming.
I stop massaging his neck.
Pull him down a bit, touching my lips to his.
A soft, feathery, barely-there kiss to get the message across.
Message received.
Suddenly we’re kissing, mouths locked, our entwined tongues doing incredible things to my lower half. God, I want him so bad.
I bend my leg, and when I do, Roman’s palm grazes up the smooth skin from my knee to my thigh to the trim of my cotton sleep shorts, fingers teasing inside the fabric.
Yes…
More.
Don’t stop teasing me, I want to tell him so he won’t quit. Don’t you dare stop.
I open my mouth wider so he can kiss me deeper, and he does, his body rolling closer to mine until he’s pressed so firmly against me it’s damn near a dry hump.
Which I would love, by the way…
Side note: I tried to bring dry humping back in a big way last year—kick it old school, if you will—but none of my ex-boyfriends went for it. Something about ‘chaffing their balls while wearing jeans’ and wanting to be balls deep instead? They hated it no matter how much I tried.
Lame.
Finally, Roman’s hand finds my breasts, carefully moving over one of them, the gentlest caress as he explores.
“Is this okay?”
I nod, almost unable to speak. “Yes” comes out as a whisper.
He’s so tender with me I actually crane my neck to watch his hand explore, the sweatshirt I had on long gone, t-shirt hiked up past my chest. I can see it well enough when his fingers splay, thumb brushing my nipple.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says as his head dips, mouth latching on, lips sucking. Kissing where his hand was.
Oh shit, that’s going to make me wet…
I’m so easy when it comes to foreplay. The smallest things get me hot and bothered. Turned on.
Words.
A slight stroke.
Watching.
The combination intoxicates me, and I feel powerful even as I lie here like a pillow princess doing none of the work.
I stretch out my body, affording him more access and a better view, one hand now propped behind my head while the other one runs down the back of his shirt—tugging at it slightly so he’ll get the hint and tear it off himself.
He does.
Lord I need a light on, because from what I can see in this dimmest of light, Roman has the body of a Roman god—broad shoulders and firm chest with a smattering of hair that’s exactly the right amount.
I run a hand across his pecs, shivering with excitement.
He might not be an athlete, but his body is athletic and toned, warm beneath my palm. He’s beautiful.
He shivers, too.
I lean up so I can kiss his shoulder. Collarbone. The center of his chest, below his Adam’s apple.
His mouth.
“Don’t you think it’s only fair that you have your shirt off, too?”
“Good point.” I like the way he’s thinking and quickly shuck my shirt, also peeling off my shorts although no one asked me to.
I’m in nothing but a thong, grateful I had the good sense not to wear what I call my “nighttime underwear,” which are high-waisted granny panties that come in packs of six with elastic bands.
I highly doubt Roman would notice if I was wearing a brown paper bag.
In fact, if there’s one thing I’ve noticed about guys in general, it’s that they do not judge your naked body—all they see is that you are naked. They see boobs. They see vajayjay.
Naked flesh is so seductive men don’t see what I perceive as flaws.
He has no idea where to touch me first, his hands roaming the entire length of my body starting with my feet. Graze up my leg (and thank God I shaved yesterday), over my hip, up my stomach, over my boob. Down my arm and up again, brushing the hair off my shoulder before kissing me there.