I don’t take my eyes off the silhouette of Waylon’s face as I slide my hands up, up, up, until they’re firmly circling his waist. My thumbs brush the soft skin just above his waistline where the shirt has ridden up, and I hate that I can barely see his reaction. I hate that my vision still twists from the alcohol when I try too hard to focus or move too fast.
Tis betta than porn
