<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ff99">Touch was good.  It wasn't enough, but it was better than just looking.  When she could reach him, she stroked her fingers through his hair -- never pulling, just stroking.  "Yes," she breathed, arching into his touch.  When he reached her breasts, her hand snaked around to the back of his neck, cradling and guiding at the same time.  Her hips were rocking against the bed, seeking more but not yet completely out of her mind with it.<br/>
<br/>
She was aware at some level that she should reciprocate -- that he was probably just as desperate for relief as she was -- but she didn't have the wherewithal to do anything about it yet.  She was drowning in his touch, letting it wash away all concerns beyond the press of his fingers and stroke of his tongue -- just this.  Nothing more.</span></span>