His body, taut and clean shaven, lay next
to her on the bed. As she awoke from a
heated dream, wet with anticipation, she
reached over to stroke his arm. As her
hand was pricked by his stubble, she asked
herself, “What kind of man shaves his arms?”
Need overcame them. They stumbled into each other, caressing, feeling, tasting. This would be it. The defining moment of what was supposed to be an innocent camping trip. The sensation of which would be overshadowed only by the itching that would result from the mosquito that was currently biting her vulva.
He had hinted all day that he was wanton after the kids had long been asleep, but she refused to give in to his needs until he proved his true manhood by rotating the laundry.
Her tongue explored his mouth, hungrily devouring the tastes of passion, need, and OMG…is that fucking chili dog?? I thought we agreed you were going to try to eat healthy this week!
He plunged into her, thickly and urgently. She bucked her hips to meet his, reveling in the sensation of fullness, of rawness, and of dog hair and crumbled cheerios embedding into the rugburn on her delicate skin.