Crazy. It honestly feels like just last week. I remember the way my windshield wipers would falter. How they would hesitate and stutter before finally making a weak pass over the glass. But unlike the wipers I 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 me before I can stop it, the following inhale just as audible as I do my damnedest not to think about the gradual, growing collection between thighs that now hurt from being practically glued together.
His fingers move against the back of my armpits, slowly massaging into my flesh, occasionally drifting into the hollows of bone. The action, like him, is decidedly ambivalent. My heart speeds at the close, intimate contact, but my breathing strangely starts to temper, as though implored to follow the pace his fingers have set. I breathe in his fresh cologne as he continues to knead me, eliciting small tickles here and there, neither too long or sharp, so intently it’s almost…nurturing. But I know better.