She has a way of slipping out of her clothes. She does it quickly. As soon as we are alone together, she sheds anything she’s wearing – deftly, smoothly, without waiting for me to undress her. By the time I have removed my shirt she is fully nude, folding her smooth little body into mine, warm, hands gripping.
She loves to be naked, she tells me. Loves to touch. Wants skin on skin. She’s constantly touching me when we’re together. Always warm. When she leans into me, presses her body into me, there’s a tactile weight to her – a heavy, welcome weight, like she’s melting into me. Like we could, if we both allowed it, meld together into one warm, liquid animal.
I feel it most acutely when she’s naked. But I feel it when she’s clothed too. I feel it through her clothes – clothes that I know she can remove altogether in the space of a few seconds. That she does remove, so eagerly and so quickly and so naturally, whenever we are alone together.
This comes to be one of the things that most arouses me about her. Her tactile warmth. Her preference for nudity. The fact that, whatever she wears, she’s only ever seconds away from being naked in my arms. How, even when dressed, she presses herself against me like she is naked. The constant touch. The feeling of her skin almost always next to mine.
In trying to explain this to her, I tell her that she always feels naked to me. “Like you’re not wearing anything,” I say to her. “Under your clothes, I mean.”
Which she laughs at. Because, she says, “Everyone is naked under their clothes.”
The next time she sees me, though, she arrives at my door not wearing panties. She shows me this as soon as she’s inside my flat. I push her dress up over her hips and fuck her on the floor, before she even has time to undress. But she doesn’t need to undress. She’s naked underneath her clothes already. It’s like there’s nothing between us. There isn’t.
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