Held in hand.

As per usual, the small talk wouldn't matter.
We'd be sitting on your bed, and night would fall through the window.
The building would be quiet. dark. asleep. not a sound to be heard, just the glow of soft yellow light from under the door into a black void of beyond. The outside world kept out.

Just you, and me.

And then, our talk would take that turn.
"Come on, it's late, and the day's been long enough for you, and you always did have a poor posture. It's about time you relaxed." I'd say.
The soft hand on the shoulder, pressing you forward.
The way you'd slide onto your side, before rolling gently forward, shoulders heaving as you adjusted your position, legs bending and spreading out behind you, the your upturned feet bare, taking your folded arms under your head, chin resting on the back of your hands.
Even with all of your clothes still on, you looked terribly cute. At peace, tranquil, and yet at the same time, that smouldering flame of anticipation - just waiting for me to nurture and breath it into a roiling fire of passion.
And I? A delicate hand pressed upon the mattress, balancing on the pads of my feet, as I took myself to your side. Your back and upper body spread out before me like a banquet.
Magnificent, you were.
Your eyes forward and elsewise elsewhere, you would only hear the removal of my shirt, the crumble of it as it's tossed to the side. You would only hear the mattress shifting as I drew close. You would only hear my breath ever so slightly quickening as I revelled in the moment yet to occur.

And then, the first touch.
Fingers firmly placed into the upper back, on either side of the spine, gently stirring round and round, through the cloth of your ever so thin fabric (you knew this was coming, after all.). Slowly, relocating the placement to occur further and further down your back. Redoing it with the joints of the finger, the knuckle, the palm. And then, the firm caress of palm and grasp of joined finger rubbing and sliding down the length of the back.
And then, keeping your eyes out of the scene, the hands would slip below that fold of fabric at the waist, and you'd feel it on the skin, the taunt fabric pressing my hands into your back.
"It seems this would be in the way. We wouldn't want it to get messed up. Though, you stay there.. No work from you.. Leave everything to me.." I would whisper,
Leaning in close, as the fingers would grasp that fabric sure and well. Rolling it up, revealing your back ready and rearing to go. It would slip over the shoulders and arms, leaving the head. And as it's scrunched up and tossed aside, with my frame leaning and hovering near entirely above you, oh how you'd try to look.

Before the oil is added to the fingertips, there would first be a bit more play.
You must surely remember it.
How I'd take the fingertip to the small of your back, just above your waist. Gently, ever - ever - so gently, hovering above your skin. The lightest, most delicate of touches, just enough to stoke your nerves, to give you those goosebumps. And then, delicately, smoothly, sliding it up the length of your back so faintly I was nearly not touching you, sometimes lifting up the finger and resuming at a point higher along the back. Oh how you'd quiver ever so slightly. Sometimes, both hands would place a finger along either side of your spine, closer to the sides of your form, and run their length up towards the ribs, and then to the base of the armpit. Oh, how I'd play with you, and how you'd tremble and quiver. And still, you wouldn't look. And still, your head would remain forward.
Even when I took my touch to your neck, running it up towards the base of your skull.
Even when I took my touch to the back of your ears, getting right in there.
Oh, how you'd quiver..

And then you'd hear it, the rustle of cloth, the removal of my sweatpants, that near noiseless sound they make as they join the other garments upon the floor.

And then, finally, the lotion, the oil, lathering the hand. You'd hear it of course, no looking from you. Nearly, but not yet. The slop-slop of oiled fingers and hands washing themselves thoroughly, the slight rustle of the mattress under our combined weight, the pant of my slow breath. And I'd bring myself into your sight at long last. The knees of my spread legs on either side of your head coming into view, and as I settle into position, you find your eyes mere inches away from the hard rod obscured by my briefs alone, straining, stiffy outlined, against the fabric. It was the only thing you could see, with your head plugging the valley my legs made for you.. unless of course, you took your gaze upwards, and let your eyes wash upon me. How cute you looked, when you had to stare at either part of me.