The denim, softened by repeated washes, makes my sensitive palms tingle as they slide up the outsides of your thighs to your hips. Pulling you a littl... closer, so that you stand nearly between my knees, I look up into your eyes. Watching you watch me as my hands glide along your belt to the buckle and undo it. You're smiling down at me, your fingertips caressing my cheeks, reading my hunger in the light stubble as if it were Braille. I keep watching you, smiling back, as I open your pants. I. I really didn't want to put on socks and shoes, so I slipped on some leather sandals. I checked myself in the mirror again, making sure my hair was okay and I didn't have any food stuck between my front teeth. I paced the three or four steps between the door and the couch, back and forth, glancing nervously at the clock each time I passed by my desk. Westy was perched on the arm of the couch, his hands slapping his thighs and his feet tapping alternately on the floor, as he listened to his own. More

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