Your hair, oh how I love your hair. Soft and healthy, I love how it falls over your brow and I sweep it to see into your eyes. I love how it feels between my fingers when my hand grasps unexpectedly at the back of your neck because I want you to kiss me harder, and I didn’t know that I wanted that. I wanted to be meek and sweet, respectful, a lady, as my parents would say. But your lips, God I love those lips. So soft and so cool and wet. Pressed against mine a knot in my throat forms and I struggle to swallow for just a half second, but long enough for you to notice and pull back and smile at me. I flutter my eyelashes and catch your stare and I blush, then you continue to push your lips on mine. As always, I’m over thinking everything by now, but you take my hand in yours and my thoughts wash away. That’s when I really noticed our dripping wet ice cold bodies. The rain storm that caused this was still tapping on the window of your room, and the thunder rumbled the walls. You slid. Marianne Martin answered it in seconds. She was wearing a fuzzy pink sweater and his favorite tight jeans. Her soft brown hair fell loose to her shoulders in waves which rippled as she laughed at the sight he made. He pulled back his hood and shook like a dog, water flying off his body. She kept chuckling as he shook of the last drops of water. His own jeans were soaking wet from the bicycle ride, all the way to his thighs, and his shoes and socks squished when he walked, little puddles of water forming at his feet."Good grief!" she said. "You look like you swam over here!" I feel that way too," he laughed."Let me hang this in the basement," she said, taking his wet coat. "I don't suppose you brought any dry clothes with you?" No," he said, shifting from foot to foot. He watched her turn away, his eyes fixed on her sweet round ass cheeks in the tight jeans. The jeans looked like they'd been sprayed on, and he could see every muscle move as she walked through the hall to the kitchen..
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