“All we ever do,” you draw mindless patters over the planes of his chest, summoning goosebumps over his skin, “is have sex.”
“Sweets,” he brings your hand which has been fixed on tattooing him as yours to his lips, kissing your knuckles tenderly, “what are you trying to say?”
Pouting, you pull your hand back but with greater strength, he manages to keep in on his chest in a loosely balled fist as a sign of crumpling opposition. You’ve never been able to resist him. And sly curl in the corners of his lips tells you he likes it, so very much.
“I’m saying,” you refrain from smiling from the triumph of having him suck in a deep breath when you hook your leg over his, grinding your shaven pussy against his hip, “I want us to go out,” he lets the hand slither out of his grasp and caress his neck the way you know will give you an easy pass, it’s his weak spot, “like on a date.”
