Biting

Both my hands are on your chest, the mounds of my thumbs resting on the tops of your breasts where they spill up out of your bra. In one movement: my left slides down, over the smooth lace, your nipple against the centre of my palm; my right slides up, up your windpipe, where my fingers count your tracheal ridges. I cup your chin and push up. The expanse of all that smooth taut skin, delicious.