Yeah, why don't you like them, I tremble to ask. Since high school, I've had body insecurities. That, however, is a tale for another time.
He quickly shook his head, "No, no, no." "They are fucking perfect."
"Really?I whimpered.
He says incredulously as he watches them all, "Really?" My skin tingled at the touch of his fingertips delicately tracing them, and my eyes went wide. "They're so perfect that I just wanna swirl my tongue around the outlining of them all."
He circles the one on my hip bone, "How many do you have?" he asks.
I said, "You can count them another time," and moved away from him.
"How the fuck are you possible," he murmurs to himself as his eyes scan my body lustfully, his lips lick, and he painstakingly examines every detail of my skin.
I grab his hand while blushing. Until some moron had to break the romantic atmosphere, we calmly strolled down the semi-crowded beach hand in hand.
