Fingers

His fingertip traces the outline of your toe, sliding effortlessly across the shiny leather of the stiletto, barely touching as the digit meets the tight weave of your stockings. Your breath catches as his fingers cuff tightly around your ankle, the heat of him palpable. A tug, and your leg moves, opening you to his gaze. The look in his eyes is hotter than that of his hand squeezing your calf, your knee.

There is that moment when his fingers touch the place where silken stockings end and flesh begins. You bite your lip, attempting to hold back the whimpers. Yearning, you wish you could lay your hands atop his, urging him higher, faster, but this is not to be.  You tug, but are secure.

The touch is higher, close but still so far. Your hips roll, urging him faster, but he ignores the obvious lure. They slip inward, outward, tracing the tops of the hosiery, over and around your supple thighs. It is madness.

Panting now, feeling the slow and steady rise of liquid heat, your eyes are held by his, unable to look away from the naked need there.

The fingers rise again, to the joining crease of leg and torso, teasing tickling trails that make you jump and giggle, and attempt to slide him away. He moves between your open thighs, his legs keeping you open, accessible, visible.

The pad of his index finger traces one swollen lip from cleft top to the heated center, then lifts away, returning to stroke the other. Hips rise, wiggling, attempting, luring, begging for his touch.

His hands rise, gliding over rounded hips, up your sides, creating swirling circles around your breasts, but never quite where you crave it most.

“Please…” your breathy plea brings a smile to his face as he settles on top of you, the buttons of his shirt creating molds against your skin.

His lips take yours as the dance begins anew.