The boxer shorts are not as close fitting as my panties, but then, they do belong to my lover. When I am in my bed and he is not with me I wear his tee-shirt and boxers and I feel his presence - the warmth of his body against mine, his big hands touching me, and the cologne, the smell of his freshly showered flesh. I want him so bad.
As I imagine him begin to make love to me, I allow my hands to become him - a palm his face; wet fingers his lips and darting tongue; knuckles, a knee on my thigh, and they begin to move over my body.
I hear his whispers, and giggle at his 'dirty' talk, which eventually causes that familiar itch in my crotch.
At this time of day he has stubble and it rasps over my cheek as he nibbles at my ear lobe; my fingernails nip at my ear, as would his teeth.
My hands rub over my body, trying duplicate the touch of his firm body, then changing to a caress as he moulds my aching breasts; aching for him.
Fingers briefly and tantalizingly pinch at a nipple and I half-heartedly protest, willing him to inflict more pleasure on it and its partner. His hands alternate between stroking my breasts from chest to nipple, from nipple to lower chest, and a sudden, rough tweak at a nipple rapidly engorging with the blood that my pounding heart is pulsing through my body.
Lips rain kisses over my face and I desperately struggle to catch them on my own lips. When I do they tease me, first pecking quickly, softly, then more firmly until our mouths are locked in passion, our tongues entwined.
With a fist I simulate his knee as it pushes insistently between my thighs, and I obey its command by bending one knee, thus exposing the target the knee seeks.