abby anderson who stands behind you and places her hands over your stomach whenever you’re busy talking to someone, nodding along intently as she slides her fingers back to your hips and grips them until your face heats and you bat at her digits in embarrassment. those same hands gripping that same pair of hips later on as her lips melt into yours, fingernails digging tiny moons into your flesh- temporary crescent-shaped tattoos of affection that linger on your skin hours later and make the hairs on the back of your neck rise when you catch sight of them in the shower. those hands- you swear to her that you hate them, hate the way they trail from your hips to your thighs, the way they part your legs effortlessly as abby’s tongue follows their direction and licks a stripe up your cunt, the way they clamp you down to the bedsheets as your back arches in pleasure… she knows it’s a lie, though. you prove it with every whimper that falls from your lips as you beg for more, more, more of her, more of her hands squeezing your ass as she presses feather-light kisses to your clit, more of her fingers, deft and skilled as they slide against the spot inside you that has you mewling abby’s name as she smears a kiss against your clavicle. “thought you hated my hands, baby?” she mocks, lips curling into a smile as she tucks you into bed beside her after your shower, arm curling around your shoulders. you pout petulantly. “sure didn’t hate them tonight, did ya—” you cut her off with a pillow to the face. “ow!” your eyes roll sullenly in their sockets, but you can’t help but feel just a little bit bad for your girlfriend as she looks at you in shock and you give in… “want me to kiss it better?” her instant nod really doesn’t come as a surprise.
