ONE BUTTON AT a time. Slipping it out of its buttonhole. Slow, measured, careful. As if each one were a little jewel that needed concentrated precision. His breathing quickened; his powerful chest expanded and contracted.406Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Za9vH4wNc
There. All set.
Mischa's hands began above his waist, over his rocky abdominals, slowly gliding upward into a thicket of curly black hair. Then his chest. Feeling the curve of his muscle, then his nipples. His heartbeat ricocheting into the palm of her hand.
"Let me known when it's my turn, 'kay?" he said.
Mischa put a finger to his lips. She ran her hand down his unshaven face, then his neck. His shoulder. He spread his arms, letting the shirt fall down to the floor.
She took her time with his belt, a rich Italian leather. Sliding the long end out of the belt loop. Pulling it back and slipping the prong out of the hole. Once undone, two quick tugs around his waist and it, too, fell to the floor.
His breathing continued to accelerate.406Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLNGtWC8TBc
Now the pants. He was visibly excited. Mischa's eyes met his briefly and she smiled. Mischievously. She worked the button and the zipper. Then she looked up at him, their eyes locked now. She watched him struggle to restrain himself as she pulled and yanked until his pants had dropped.406Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡufMbMR4UEx
"Mischa...."406Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUz6ukzUuvw
"Don't say my name." She shook her head slowly. She was someone else. Someone else with her hand inside his cotton boxers. Someone else touching, caressing, stroking. Not too slow. Not too fast.406Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjAisPBbE20
"Okay," she said. "Your turn."406Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6DPpDRiiOU
