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The roar of forty thousand fans reverberated through the metal bleachers. A deafening wall of sound that shielded us better than any curtain ever could. We were tucked into the upper deck, enveloped by the buzzing energy of the ninth inning. My entire universe had narrowed down to the heavy warmth of his leg pressed firmly against mine.
He kept his eyes fixed on the field, a cool picture of casual focus. But under the shield of his oversized team jacket spread across our laps, his hand was making a merciless descent.
When his fingertips brushed the inner curve of my thigh, a sharp gasp escaped my throat, instantly swallowed by the crowd’s collective groan at a missed pitch. His thumb stroked agonizingly slow circles through the thin fabric of my shorts, steadily working its way upward. The contrast was maddening, tens of thousands of oblivious eyes around us; and his hidden intent burning right beside me.
I gripped the edge of my seat, my knuckles turning white as his fingers slipped higher. Finally finding the sensitive apex where heat pooled. He didn’t rush. With a master’s patience, he applied a precise, rhythmic pressure through the cloth. Tracing tight, exquisite… Continue reading “His Masterful Fingers”