His fingers gently, lightly, slowly, trailed across the bed sheets, carefully brushing aside the silky fabric of the waist-deep neckline. Firmly but softly, he traced the lines of her body. From her long tresses with their rich hues of summers past, curled and waved from the passage of the night; following the strong of her jaw; down her elegant neck; over the round of her shoulder and upper arm, diverting down with that gathering strength to cup her heavy breast and lightly tweak her large and beautiful nipple. His head sleepily moved towards it, a tiny mountain of fleshy perfection, cold and standing proud in the early light – at least one part of her was fully awake. She sighed. His lips gently kissed her, his ear quietly nuzzling between her breasts in between a slow line of kisses around her areola, spiralling until reaching her nipple, and suckling gently, letting her feel the edge of his teeth but not causing her pain. Rude awakenings, like an icy springtime, were not his. With back arched, legs crossed and skirt riding up her thigh she would school her young companion on the subtleties of sales. In mock deference to her teaching, his eyes dropped, but they did not close. Instead they traversed her legs from hem to toe until, transfixed by her brightly painted nails, he simply stared, head bowed, struggling to breathe and completely unaware that her eyes were now watching his face closely. Deftly, she slipped her heel from her shoe, and pointed her toes. Her sandal, held only by a thin strap of leather, dangled precariously from her toes as she ‘absent-mindedly’ bounced her foot. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as his head bobbed in time. Suddenly, but with complete seriousness, she uncrossed her legs, leaned forward facing him head-on, and placed her hands on her thighs. Her knees opened, seemingly spread by the weight of her hands, and her hem slid slowly upward. I don’t know if he heard her pontificate about the value of openness and personal.
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