Adelle Chardonnay

As she kisses, Adelle runs her fingertips over my face, my back, my arms. Her lips find nerve centers overlooked by all the medical books, and at her stimulus, they burst into response like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Her touch is the brush of a butterfly’s wing; her scent, the lilac’s breath; her lips, God’s blessing.

The finesse of her love-making robs me of my senses. I am on the ocean bottom, scuba tanks running low. With each kiss, with each caress, the harder I breathe, the less air I get. Nature is easing back on my consciousness, directing the flow of oxygen to my loins.

But even in this breathless agony of need, our movements are soft and measured. How can desire so violent find expression so leisurely? We are a paroxysm of languor.

She runs her right hand slowly along my inner thigh and passes it over the lump in my jeans. Continuing upward past my waist, her fingers touch shirt button 7, then 6, then 5, 4, and 3, where they stop—just long enough to undo 3, then 2, then 1.

She slides her fingers in and murmurs inarticulately when she finds that I have no undershirt on. Her index finger traces slow, concentric circles around my right nipple, occasionally tweaking it for good luck. I never suspected it before, but being petted drives me wild.