Why I love visiting Anita? - part II.

She reaches for me in the bathroom doorway, fingers curling around my wrist and yanking me inside like she has better things to do than wait. The tile's cold under my feet, then gone when she pins me against the sink. Her mouth finds mine, sharp and tasting of mint. My shirt's already half off before I realize her hands have moved, opening buttons, pushing fabric aside. She tastes my neck, biting just enough, then drops to her knees without ceremony. I feel her breath first, hot through cotton, then her tongue, wet and insistent, tracing the line of me until she takes what she wants without asking. The porcelain edge digs into my palms. Steam fogs the mirror behind me. Her fingernails mark crescents into my thighs as she works, head bobbing, lips sealed tight, the wet sounds mixing with my uneven breathing. When she pulls off, spit shining on her lower lip, her hand replaces her mouth. She strokes slow, deliberate, thumb circling the head until I can't hold still anymore. She stands, wipes her mouth on the back of her wrist, and grins like she's just getting started.