*Isadora*
If I can’t touch him, I will surely die. But he seems intent upon my death.
How is it possible for such desperation to ensue with so little of him touching so little of me ?
When he had begun trailing his fingers over my skin, I had expected a repeat of last night with clothes undone, flesh exposed to air, his questing tongue, and his exploring hands. But he is leaving my clothing intact and in doing so he is forcing me to become frantic with need and desire.
With my leg resting at his waist, draped over his hip, I rise up on my toes, striving to create enough slack in my body that I can press an aching and needy secretive spot against him, but he holds himself just beyond my reach. My gasp is nearly a whimper of despair.
While still touching me, he somehow manages to fluff
