Just a touch

"What beautiful hair you have, may I?"

         My fingertips loosening it from the hair tie, smoothing it out, fanning it with my fingers. Combing through the fine silken strands, feeling them play across the backs of my hands, across the webs between my fingers, tickling my wrists. Weaving my fingers in, tangling it, as if caught in passion. My nails gently scratching the scalp; running through again and again, angling his face for kissing, but without our lips brushing. Sensual, imagining how it would be if it were reversed; if it were my hair in his hands. Would I be gasping, grasping at him, pulling him closer, wanting much more?
         He has more reserves than I do, his only tells are the relaxing of his face, enjoying the pleasure, and the tightening of the small muscle in his jaw. My fingers move to touch it, feel the tension. One hand still ensnared in the silken net of his hair, the other lightly tracing the outline of his jaw through his beard. His beard such a different sensation, rough against my hand, such a contrast between them. One short rough bristle; the other fine and long softness my hand still enmeshed in. Rougher still when I run my hand against the neatly trimmed and carefully arranged beard. How quickly that roughness loses it's appeal, my fingers moving on to the angles of his face. The sharp curve of his cheekbones, the fine line of his nose. Back again to that tension in his jaw. Gently I follow the angle of his neck, to his ear, past that to his temple. Do I feel his pulse quicken, fluttering faster beneath my touch? Across his brow, just the first beginning of damp, reacting to the heat between us. Ah, but his hair is too tempting; my hands magnetically drawn back through that magical softness, fine and long. I watch through hooded eyes, as his lips move silently; is he asking me, telling me? I'm drawn closer to the mixture of the strength and softness of those lips. Slowly disentangling from his hair, my hands read his face; his unlined forehead, the smooth planes of his cheeks. My finger moving slowly along the center of his lips, over his beard.
         Moving closer, face to face, my hands slowly easing down his neck, splaying out on his chest. Pushing him onto his back, moving my body over his, straddling him. Taking his hands in mine and shifting them to my waist. Leaning over him, my hair tickling him, until we are nose to nose, resting my body against his. My lips feathering lightly across his face, down his neck. Those small hoarse sounds that escape from between his lips. I pull back before he can kiss me, and as I rock upright, my own body responding to him erect and hot beneath me. I feel his hardness pushing dangerously against that thin fabric that separates us. Slowly I shift my body back and forth, enjoying every inch of contact my movements afford me.
         Idly, part of me wonders why men so react to the woman on top; is it the feeling of power that we exude, our erotic dominance? Is it their own secret wish to be relieved of the pressures of being the aggressor? They merely need to lay back and enjoy the feelings. Perhaps it is the vision of our bodies - Seeing the blood flood our cheeks with color, the swelling of our lips, reading to be kissed? Or watching the play of our skin, our breasts moving seductively beneath our clothes? Waiting for the clothes to come off to watch those same breasts free, swaying or bouncing depending on the actions below. The larger part of my consciousness disregards the reasons, reveling in the pleasure of the motion, the contact.
         I move back and forth, waiting for him to urge me on with his hands, or to slide them up or down. The anticipation is delicious; an almost real taste on my tongue.