Hands, everywhere. All over her back, in her hair, on her neck, on her hips. Pulling her onto a desk, pulling her face close, pulling her hair back. Lips, everywhere. On her own, at her neck, on her hips. Eyes, everywhere. On her face, on her body.
The desk, cold and solid against her back, hands hot on her thighs. Lips soft on her neck, fingers rough inside her. First one, slow and easy. Then two, pumping rhythmically. Then three, stretching her to her limits. Lips left her neck, a bruise to remember them by. A hand grabs her hip and pulls her forward. A head between thighs, breathing her in. Soft, timid lips on her skin. Two hands spread her thighs apart and a tongue tastes her, hot and rough. It makes a home between her hips, tasting every drop of her anticipation.
A different hand meets her neck. Another joins it and pulls her in, leaning her forward legs still apart with a tongue buried inside.
Notes I wrote at midnight