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with long, black nails.
I like the way they look, touching me. Dakota never has long nails because of dance. She complained about it often, but she loves dance more than nail art, so natural nails it is.
“You shouldn’t be.” The compliment comes out as a purr and my body responds. Sophia’s finger is still making a slow line down my stomach, and I’m confused, but I don’t want her to stop. Her fingers draw along the bottom of my stomach, just above where the curtain is covering enough for my cock not to show. My mind is trying to figure out why she’s touching me like this while I’m simultaneously trying to keep my cock soft.
I don’t know her that well, but I do know that she’s much bolder than the girls my age that I’ve met. She doesn’t have a problem cussing out the television during Master Chef, and she clearly doesn’t have a problem touching my soaking, naked body. The trail of hair from my belly button down to my groin seems to be entertaining her as she brushes the tip of her index finger over it.
Did she say something?Ah, yes, she did. She said, “You shouldn’t be.”
When did the smoke alarm stop beeping?
What does she mean by that? I shouldn’t be embarrassed?I nearly busted my ass in the bathroom while jerking off and was found naked on the shower floor.
Of courseI’m embarrassed. And just like that, the spell of whatever she’s doing is weakened and self-consciousness creeps back in.
I look at her, at the reflection of her dark hair in the foggy mirror.
“Thanks,” I weakly reply. I clear my throat and continue: “I took quite a tumble.” I laugh, getting closer to finding the humor in the whole thing.
Her eyes are warm and her finger is still touching me, slowly tracing and teasing. It’s not awkward, but I don’t know what to say or do. Before I have to decide, she pulls away with a smile.
I turn from her with flushed cheeks and wipe my hand across the mirror. She stands still, her back against the towel rack. I stare at my reflection and wince when my finger touches a small but deep cut just above my eye. A trickle of blood is running down my forehead, I reach behind Sophia and grab a hand towel, dabbing at the torn skin while I make myself a promise to never try to get off in a tiny shower unless I’m wearing armor or something. I apply as much pressure as I can stand to get the bleeding to stop.
With Sophia still in the bathroom, should I be making conversation with her or something? I don’t know what to think about her touching me. I don’t know the etiquette when it comes to things like this. Is this the norm for young, single people?
I’ve only had one girlfriend ever up until now, so I can’t pretend to know about this type of thing. I can’t pretend to know what this girl is thinking, or what she wants. I hardly know anything about her.
I met her back in Washington briefly, when her family moved in near my mom and Ken. I know that she’s a few years older than me, and that she likes her friends to call her by her middle name, Nora, which is something I constantly screw up only to have Tessa correct me with a scowl. I know that she always smells like sugar and candy. I know that she comes over a lot because she doesn’t like her roommates. I know that she keeps Tessa company when I can’t, and somehow they have become friends over the last few months. That’s pretty much it. It sounds like a lot when I list it out, but all of those things are superficial, nothing more. Oh yeah, she just graduated from culinary school and works at the same restaurant as Tessa.
And now I can add that she likes to touch naked, wet stomachs.
I look away from the mirror and back at her.
“Are you staying to make sure I don’t have a concussion?” I ask.
She nods, giving me a toothy smile. The corners of her eyes crinkle up and her lips look incredibly plump, especially when she licks over them with her tongue. Wet lips and those eyes . . . she’s lethal.
She knows it.
I know it.
Obama knows it.
She’s the kind of woman that will chew you up and spit you out, and you’ll love every minute of it. Her index finger is tapping on her bottom lip and I’m still quiet. She can’t be hitting on me? I’m confused. Not complaining, just confused.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say with a wink. Did I really just do that?
