One. Two.

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The soft click of the front door is all it takes to make my thighs tremble.
I hand you your whiskey. You take a sip.
I watch the heave of your chest as you breathe.
One. Two.
I swallow. You laugh.
My fingertips trace a pattern along the softness of my skin, darting between my legs.
I look at you.
Your fingertips tap against the top of your glass.
One. Two.
My hands' inch upwards, tugging the frayed ends of my shirt up higher and higher.
Black lace.
You exhale.
One. Two.
Your hands find my neck, tightening their hold.
My head falls backs.
The pleasure consumes me.
You consume me.
Your hands are everywhere.
Your lips trace the outline of my collarbones, your hands' palm across my hipbones.
My mouth aches for you.
I arch my back.
I'm throbbing.
Your hand is pressed between my legs, my skirt hitched up around my waist.
Pulling my hair.
Teeth on my throat.
A wetness settles between my thighs.
You slide inside me.
Fucking me hard.
One. Two. Bliss.

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