Free Intrusion by Charlotte Stein Page A

away exactly. In fact, when I go to do just that his hand comes up and cups the back of my head.
    I could live to be a thousand and never feel anything as good as that. It spins my stomach around the sun. All I can do is marvel at his ability to be so cautious and so daring at the same time, with the tiniest of moves and the littlest of things. He holds me there so he can carry on kissing, and I go wild for him.
    And wilder still when I realize he’s looking at me. His eyes are open as he presses more deeply into it, as bright and assessing as they’ve ever been. Watching me watching him as we carefully maneuver our way through this. I part my lips a little more, stopping just short of the messy, open-mouthed kiss I really want to give. Then in return he licks at my upper lip in this tiny darting flick, as though to say that one step further is okay.
    I might even be permitted to put a hand on his leg. At the very least, I think I’m allowed to touch his hair. Somewhere in the middle of it all he started stroking through my curls, and it feels so good and seems so full of freedom that I can hardly stop myself from doing the same. That little cowlick just above his left ear is right there . I could just reach up, and wrap it around my finger. Maybe tug on it a little, or sink my fingers a little deeper in.
    Would he mind?
    I don’t think he would mind. He just put his other hand on my waist—almost as though it happened by accident, but not enough to make me really believe it. He wanted that hand there. In my more delirious moments I could even believe he wanted to feel how thin this dress is, because of course the answer is very fucking thin indeed .
    I didn’t think anything of it when I put it on, but by the time our eyes close and our mouths kind of start to tangle in that deliciously feverish way, I have to wonder. Maybe I was waiting for just this moment. Could be I thought of him seeing the shape of my breasts beneath the material, and instead of feeling fear at the thought, I got a blissful burst of the opposite. I wanted to entice him.
    For once, it was okay to want to entice someone.
    And I think he might be enticed. That hand is certainly making some interesting shapes over my side. He seems to be rubbing me there—unless that’s just my pleasure-addled imagination talking. I sort of feel as if I’m swimming through an ocean of syrup, and that full sensation has returned to my general groin area.
    Only now it’s halfway down my thighs and most of the way up my body, and when his hand definitely moves toward my breast I think my insides try to squeeze out of my skin.
    His kisses are really, really heated now. His tongue is practically fucking my mouth, and I can hear him making sounds. It isn’t just breathlessness or him clearing his throat. That little humming sort of thing—the one that rolls down through me in a wave—is a moan of pleasure. So is it really that strange to imagine he might touch me there? That he could maybe tug at those flimsy buttons and pull the material of my bra aside, find my stiff and aching nipple and run the pad of his thumb over the tip. . .
    He’s so close, I think.
    Just another inch.
    Just a little more.
    And then he pulls away, and oh God, I could cry. My body was so primed for it I can practically feel the heat of his hand on my breast. That tight little nipple tingles as though he pinched it, and for one mad moment I nearly pull him back. I almost let out a sound of protest, before I remember what kind of person I am.
    A respectful person, who allows people their boundaries.
    If he wants to stop, we stop. If he wants to stand and go to the sink and not look at me or speak to me, then that’s what happens now. I was probably wrong about his feelings, anyway. I thought he wanted to touch me or do more—quite clearly he didn’t. What I took for excitement was probably just grim determination, as he tried to grind his