I love it when she lets me do this, undressing her slowly and letting my hands direct her. Kissing the marks made by her clothes; soft indentations on pliant flesh. Pulling her nipple into my mouth and inhaling the scent of her warmth. Of her.
Her leather belt, supple from use, the memory of which can make me grin foolishly just to see her wearing it, low across her hips, at a dull and deadening party. That spark of amusement as she catches my eye and notes my increasingly frequent forays into my bag to clutch at car keys.