"What are you doing?" I asked, pulling my mouth away from his in order to pose the question.
It was a rhetorical question, or at least sort of. I knew what he was doing. His hand had slowly been making its way under and up my shirt as we fogged up my car windows while parked in front of his house.
"Are you wearing that bra you told me about?" he asked, playing with the hem of my sweatshirt.
I looked at him like he had sprouted two heads.
"I am wearing a sports bra," I said flatly. "We just ran up several hundred stairs. Why would I wear a lace bra to do that?"
"So you're not going to let me go up there?" he questioned.
"Do you mean up my shirt? Gross. No, not tonight. That is disgusting. Things are sweaty and probably smell," I stated.
His eyes perked up upon hearing the word "sweaty," but quickly returned to normal when I shook my head and began to glare at him.
"Let's clear this up right now: post-exercise, I am always going to want to shower before fooling around or having sex," I told him. "There is no chance of anyone getting near my lady bits if I am feeling less than fresh. I need to shower first." He did not seem to understand the purpose of this, so he decided just to lick my neck. I decided to follow his lead and return the favour.
"I just have to remember not to give you a hickey in case you have to go to a job interview this week," I said, more to myself than to him.
"It is okay," he replied, "I am the kind of guy who likes to wear turtlenecks under my scrubs."
That was good enough for me, so I proceeded to attack his neck like it owed me money. A little while later, I pulled back in an attempt to check on my work.
"How is it?" he asked.
"I don't know," I answered honestly, "I can't see. It's too dark in here. I could use the head lamp in my pocket to check it out."
Alas, before being able to confirm that my canvas had been marked, it was time to go. I booted him out of my car, turned on the engine and drove away.
It was a rhetorical question, or at least sort of. I knew what he was doing. His hand had slowly been making its way under and up my shirt as we fogged up my car windows while parked in front of his house.
"Are you wearing that bra you told me about?" he asked, playing with the hem of my sweatshirt.
I looked at him like he had sprouted two heads.
"I am wearing a sports bra," I said flatly. "We just ran up several hundred stairs. Why would I wear a lace bra to do that?"
"So you're not going to let me go up there?" he questioned.
"Do you mean up my shirt? Gross. No, not tonight. That is disgusting. Things are sweaty and probably smell," I stated.
His eyes perked up upon hearing the word "sweaty," but quickly returned to normal when I shook my head and began to glare at him.
"Let's clear this up right now: post-exercise, I am always going to want to shower before fooling around or having sex," I told him. "There is no chance of anyone getting near my lady bits if I am feeling less than fresh. I need to shower first." He did not seem to understand the purpose of this, so he decided just to lick my neck. I decided to follow his lead and return the favour.
"I just have to remember not to give you a hickey in case you have to go to a job interview this week," I said, more to myself than to him.
"It is okay," he replied, "I am the kind of guy who likes to wear turtlenecks under my scrubs."
That was good enough for me, so I proceeded to attack his neck like it owed me money. A little while later, I pulled back in an attempt to check on my work.
"How is it?" he asked.
"I don't know," I answered honestly, "I can't see. It's too dark in here. I could use the head lamp in my pocket to check it out."
Alas, before being able to confirm that my canvas had been marked, it was time to go. I booted him out of my car, turned on the engine and drove away.
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