His small, worn, rough hand... His strong finger gently teasing my lips. He parts them ever so slightly, slipping between them, running their length.
A delicate pressure and they give way to a warm, welcoming opening, moist with the desire to taste him.
His hand is perceptibly chapped, contrasting the gentleness with which he moves; toying and teasing my senses but teasing it remains. I don't have the privilege of savoring him yet.
I crave him, hunger for him. My body reacts automatically, arching gracefully to accommodate and beckon him in as he makes the plunge. His hand and my body become one, moving in unison only momentarily.
He is him again and I am me but he owns me from the inside out. His finger enveloped in my juices moves so deep I can barely breathe. I want to speak to him, tell him to let me surrender but my mind is lost as my body gives way.