This Is Not About Love

We’re not in love. We’re not in love but we’re lovers. It’s… complicated.

Over the more than a decade since we first met we’ve both acknowledged and accepted that we have this side to ourselves. There is a difference, for us, between sexual attraction and romantic inclinations and we’ve both realized that we align this way.

Neither of us want to date the other and neither of us are looking for a ring. But a bit of fun is something else entirely.

I drag her down to my bed and spin her around, tangling her in my sheets as my hands find her wrists and push them back to my mattress. Rachel giggles and leans into it, nipping at my earlobe before whispering to me.

“I’m glad we’re both single this year. Last year was such a bore, just like your ex.”

She grins and I shake my head, “Wicked girl.”

“You think so,” she says, challenging me, “Then punish me.”

I press down at her, pushing my lips against her lips and my body against her body. The oversized t-shirt I wore to bed tonight, one left behind by said boring ex, is old and worn and so when I push down against her I can feel every bit of her body against mine.

Rachel is something else. Every inch of her is toned and delightful, the body of a goddess cast in muscle and soft sinew. She writhes against me and I push down her arms, wrapping my fingers around her wrists once more and pinning them over her head before pulling a pillow down overtop of them.

“No moving,” I tell her, “Pretend they’re handcuffs.”

She pouts, “But we have actual handcuffs.”

“Too far away,” I inform her, “If I left you alone in my bed god knows what you’d get up to before I managed to get back.”

I smile and she grins back up at me and I dip down to nip at her bottom lip while my fingers work at the buttons of her shirt. She’s wearing some type of pajama set, soft and silky and buttoned up. It’s pretty in pink with little strawberries on it, but by the time I get the buttons half undone and I can see the full line of her cleavage and the slightest hint of her surprisingly strong abs the clothing becomes only an impedance to my needs.

I need her body. I need my hands on her body. I need with all of myself as my fingers tug and pull at the buttons and them push the shirt open and she’s revealed to me, all of her upper body on full display.

Her breasts that are perfect teardrops and perky even in repose, tanned skin and upturned pink nipples that are already puckered for my attentions. A long hourglass figure with her stomach toned but soft, the kind of lines on it that could help you to draw every single muscle group but still know that the touch of it would be supple and sweet. Those full hips of hers, the pants that she wears barely hanging onto them and the line of them showing off just the slightest bit of her mound already flushing with the attentions I’ve given to her and all of her going to flush so much more as I lean down to play and taste and tease her body.

Lips on her neck, sucking and kissing and licking so lightly. Hands on her hips pushing at her pants and dragging them down to her mid-thigh. Tongue on her collarbone just light and in that ticklish way that drives her wild and makes the tops of her breasts start to go red. Hands moving up to meet my lips as they slide over her hips and abs and ribs until they crest her breasts.

Tasting them. Closing my lips over her nipples one at a time as my hands turn them up to my attention. Licking and lightly biting, just enough and in just the right way to make her putty in my hands and make her mewl, wriggling beneath my attentions.

Her legs kicking out and one of them rising up as I straddle that thigh and start to grind on it, pressing my needy sex against her thigh and knowing she can feel my need just as much as I can feel hers.

“It’s your birthday,” she protests, “Shouldn’t you be the one having all the fun?”

I give her breasts one final kiss and grind down with my hips before sliding up to straddle her middle, cocking my head to one side and looking down at her.

“Oh but I am and I will.”

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