Our lips move sensually, pressure and absence, parting with the brushing of tongues. We move as one toward the four-poster bed dominating the center of the room.
My back meets a post, and we stop, our energy transferred to frenzied hands working to undress each other. His costume is authentic, an elaborate concoction of laces and toggles that frustrates me at every turn.
I bite his lip with a growl and look down, blessing the man who invented zippers.
He succeeds before I do, but I am the one rewarded as a strong hand wraps around me, squeezing and stroking.
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