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I giggle.
Chris looks up from between my legs. “That’s not your usual reaction.”
He mimics my voice in between trailing kisses up my thigh and abdomen. “Oh god. There, right there. No one hits that spot quite like you. More. Please. Please. PLEASE. Oh my god Chris.” His hand moves to the curve of my hip and then kisses that spot there that drives me wild. He continues with the monologue, “Your words, when you are able to speak that is.” His hands trace slowly up my sides then fondle my breasts. “And I forgot the best one … Chris, you have the hands of a gifted sculptor, the lips of a trumpeter, and you’re …”
“Not the time for a horse metaphor.”
A dimpled grin. “Even if it’s true?” His mouth covers a nipple.
A few seconds later … or minutes … I’ve lost track of time; I tilt his chin up. “Wait, I’ve never said that. Hell, who could form such a sentence and then speak it coherently when your mouth and hands are … downtown … and you do that thing you do with your … though I agree with the sentiment.”
His smile turns wicked, and he scoots back to the bottom of the bed. “Do you mean this?” A pause.
I sigh. And nod. Vocalizing is … beyond my powers right now.
“Or this?” he asks after giving particularly nimble, creative, and lengthy attention to all the right places.
“Both,” I manage to say between coos and pants. My hips shift and press upward. My hands run through his hair and press his head downward. I beg for more. Chris indulges my pleas. Then … there’s that sensation again. I giggle.
“Have to say, having a lady laugh while I’m … well it’s a first for me.”
“The beard … it’s the beard … it tickles.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“Hmmm. I need more data …”