My wife and I took our time undressing her. I’d like to tell you how strong my hands were and how the girl trembled beneath my touch. But no. My hands shook. My fingertips were cold.
I stood behind her, my face pressed against her neck — kissing her, smelling her, holding back the nibbling and the biting that soon would know no restraint. Her hair on my cheek. Her skin warm against my lips, which were cold as my fingertips.
If I were making this up, I’d say she smelled like flowers — jasmine or hyacinth or even roses. But I’m not, and she didn’t. She smelled like you or I smell on any given summer day — a hint of soap — the ghost of an early morning shower — and flesh. Flesh and sweat.
To read more, read the rest of the story. (Not for anyone under 18.) Enjoy!