Crazy. You feel like it was just last week. The way your windshield wipers would falter. How they would hesitate and stutter before finally making a weak pass over the glass. But unlike the wipers you needed—still need—to replace, Frost’s sure thumbs move with precision. Boldness. Creating heat with their strokes instead of clearing moistu—
A sigh escapes you before you can stop it, the following inhale just as audible as you do your damnedest not to think about the gradual, growing collection between your thighs that now hurt from being practically glued together.
His fingers move against the back of your armpits, slowly massaging into your flesh, occasionally drifting into the hollows of bone. The action, like him, is decidedly ambivalent. Your heart speeds at the close, intimate contact, but your breathing strangely starts to temper, as though implored to follow the pace his fingers have set. You breathe in his fresh cologne as he continues to knead you, eliciting small tickles here and there, neither too long or sharp, so intently it’s almost…nurturing. But you know better.