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His kiss was hard, but his cock was harder, straining against the thin fabric of his pants into my welcoming palm. His own hand was on my right breast, kneading the flesh roughly as his finger tips sought out my nipple through my blouse. The motion, amplified through the coarseness of the material, sent fresh ripples of anticipation coursing through my body.

I shifted my hand a few inches. Now it was against his belly, pinned into place by the weight of our bodies. I fumbled at the buttons of his waistband, but there was no room for my fingers to maneuver; instead, I pushed my hand inside his pants, inside his briefs, seeking the solid mass that I knew was there. If I could just touch him, just brush the tip with a fingernail, hear the sharp intake of breath that I knew such a simple action would cause; that was all I wanted.

As if he read my mind, he took a step back, his open mouth still pressed firmly against mine. I seized the moment, seized his prick through his pants, felt its warmth and firmness against my skin and, though I felt the fabric of his pants protest, I curled my fingers around its thickness. He felt so strong, so huge. I wanted to smell him, to taste him, to feel him inside me, as deep as he could go... I had to have him, right here, right now. And then a footstep on the stairs behind us saw us spring apart, and turn our attention to the pile of neatly numbered and stenciled cardboard boxes heaped up in the basement where we stood. ...

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