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It’s about the time that you should be leaving, but you don’t. You give me that look that makes my stomach seize and grief catch in my throat, a coal-like lump of regret. I remember being able to love you easily, I remember how swiftly a look like that might have won me over and in that split-second I’m wrong, maybe you’re not such a loser. We’ve broken up, I don’t see things between us as quite so dark and gloomy anymore. The weeks have passed, the long cloud of indecision and lost opportunities that hung over us has gone. We’ve boiled down to an occasional home visit and the sweet nostalgia that makes my throat ache when you look at me like you’re doing now. I can remember good things; what it feels like to be in your arms, or sweating above you, or lost in your eyes as I orgasm. It’s not so hard to sweep me into a kiss, a sticky-soft embrace that is loaded with the smell of your breath, and your jacket. Your brown, well-loved leather jacket that drove me to dig you so much in the first place. You smell like hope and promises (as much as etimesgut escort a particular cheap cologne, rolling tobacco and leather can smell like those things), you smell like the happiest times of my early twenties. You smell like my Jack Kerouac novel, the dog eared-copy with the inscription I wrote to you about love and our lives and coming into romance like a car crash. I feel heavy and wet and all confused. I push your jacket over your shoulders, past your biceps and over your forearms. We both allow it to fall to the floor. I’m only wearing an old t-shirt and jeans, I’m barefoot with my hair unkempt and I’ve never felt sexier. I don’t want us to be together again but I know I want this. I take your hand and put it on my chest. I show you my heart thrashing out its erratic tempo through the fabric. You drop your fingertips until they fondle my nipple through the worn fabric. While we’re still kissing your inquisitive digits travel on still further and support the weight of my breast, on and on eryaman escort your hot fingers go, tracing the outline of underwire in my cheap lace bra, giving me goosebumps. I can feel my breath getting lighter. It feels right, this sloppy I-don’t-want-to-stop-because-I-don’t-know-where-this-is-going meeting of our mouths; tongues are old friends, you know exactly how to play in my wet mouth and tease the tiny, breathy moans that sing a siren-call to the juices in my pussy. Your sexy fat lips and magical tongue start an ache that makes me want to climb inside you. I want you to lay me down on the floorboards and fuck me like the apocalypse is due in under an hour. Logic drains from my consciousness and I’m starting to pant. I fumble with your jeans buttons (you used to have zip-fly ones) fingers anxious to clasp what’s beneath. I’m pushing my breasts into your searching hands and appreciatively against the wall of your chest. I can’t hear what you’re attempting to whisper for the roar of blood and desire in sincan escort my ears. Your mouth is so very close to my face, that’s all that matters. One eager hand hurriedly undoes the top button and pushes it’s way down the front of my jeans. They stretch to accommodate your big fingers and I almost burst when you plunge a deliberate finger into my slickness. With a stroke of that deft finger and a nibble on my lip I’m mewing at you, my knees trembling. I want you inside me. I can’t think how to make it happen more quickly and when I pull away from the meeting of our mouths it’s to wrench your denim down to your ankles. I cast my eager fingers past your boxer shorts and savour the heat of your cock in my hand. It twitches. I hold you firmly in the stillness. We’re stopped, no longer frenzied but disheveled and eager in my hallway, three-quarters of our way through your exit and so very far from it now. We’re both shaking with need and I have your cherished penis in the palm of one hand. Your blue eyes, framed by dark, full eyelashes, (that I always envied) can see beyond what misty, desirous expression I must be wearing. You look at me as though you can see something I have long forgotten, I don’t know what it is and I don’t want to take the time to examine further. I want the familiar, beautiful cock I can feel in my hand.