Our hands are everywhere at once. His full weight on top of my body yearning to be touching skin instead of clothing. He is placing butterfly kisses down my neck, and I try to remember how to inhale and exhale. Our ragged breaths are drowned out by our racing pulse. I push my hands under his shirt trying to reach skin, but even as I feel how flawless he is, it is not enough. I start to lift the shirt up but he nips at my neck, causing me to forget my attempt to remove his shirt. I arch myself, molding my body to his. He emits a sound between a moan and a growl, and I place my hands back onto his body.
As I lift my arms a final time, I slide them up to take the offensive material off of his torso. My fingers feel like ice compared to his scorching body. I scratch my nails down his back and feel him curve into me. His shallow puffs of heat coast over my collar bone and drift into my ear. He somehow gets my bra loosened and sits up to straddle my hips. I groan from the lack of contact and reach up to bring him back to me. He smirks and runs his fingers under my back and into the inside of my bra. I hear three distinct clicks then feel a rush of air between my breasts. The feel of his warm fingers against my back causes me to lean upwards. His hands are not just resting against my skin anymore, but they are bringing my body up to meet his.
But we never collide.
“Why do you do this to me,” I whisper to him as he pulls his hands away, causing me to fall back towards the bed.
And that is it.
I lay awake in my bed, panting, with an ache between my legs. I groan and turn over in my bed, checking to see how much sleep I got tonight. Two thirty-seven is flashing back at me in red.
Awesome. I slept for a grand total of two hours and seven odd minutes. Lovely.
These dreams, nightmares almost, seem to get worse the longer I go without seeing him.