My lips find her neck's descent, feeling the rising pulse. Down they go to join my fingers already taking the measure and form of her breast.

Breasts. What spawned my fascination? My obsession really? Did it first start with envisioning iconic womanhood beneath concealing clothes? Was it envy, mine ever remaing bra-refuting bumps? Or discovering their infinite, subtle variety? The tactile thrill of them filling my hand, the reaction of nipple to moist, craving kiss?

I jerk away as her finger sharply flicks my ear. One brow arched, she looks me hard in the eyes.

"You're thinking again, aren't you?"