I missed the smell of his cigarettes. He catches me watching his lips around the filter, tensely plush upon inhalation, parted to twitch sometimes in a grin as the smoke drifts out his mouth.
It's so incredibly sexy when he blows smoke in my face.
Today I was making spring rolls and he pulled down my pants, slid off my underwear and teased me. He told me to keep doing what I was doing. Told me not to move, not to twitch, not to writhe. Just keep on slicing that tofu, good. Fingers quickly slicked to the feeling of him pressed against me, firm and heated against the rise of my shoulderblades and ass, the imprint of his jeans rough on cold, too-sensitive skin suddenly so roughly spread apart.
But I kept slicing that tofu, dammit.