a bit from it

When she slides back against him he is startled by it. He feels his body stiffen. His arms lock tight against his chest. His knees are dovetailed planks. He tries to swallow but it is impossible. She is leaning against him. She has shifted so that her bottom is in his lap. He has a flash of the first moment he saw her, the miracle of secret folds and hair and the glisten of damp. He is hard. She nestles closer and he can feel the heat of her skin separated from his penis by a meniscus of fabric. He would be touching her. If she were naked, if he were naked, he would be pressed against her now. She reaches backwards towards him and he is a statue of himself. She almost has to wrestle his hand into her own. She pulls his arm over and around her body and clutches his fist between her breasts. His fist is between her breasts. He is aware for a moment that his breath will be warming the back of her head, moving her hair like grass in a late warm breeze. He would touch her hair, except his hand is a fist clamped between her breasts. He knows what her breasts look like, soft and very round and with brown nipples spreading across them. He shifts his hips closer against her. This is what she wants, he supposes, to feel that he is hard and tight. This is why she shifted onto the feel of it. He pushes it against her, almost a challenge. He has a hard on and it can’t be hidden so it is here. He wants her to know that it is here.