"Did I do something wrong...?" you ask, nervously.
You look so cute in your lazy-Sunday outfit, your hair just a little unkempt, your jeans hanging tantalizingly loose with the top button undone.
I eye you possessively, tracing each of your curves as you wait impatiently. I watch as you anxiously shift your weight back and forth across your bare feet.
My eyes linger on your breasts and the t-shirt that clings to them before trailing down to your crotch.
"Show it to me."
Your eyes dart to the side and you swallow hard as you fight to control the heat rising to your cheeks.
"Yeah, I know babe. Your friends are going to be here any minute. But you were the one who was asking if something was wrong, weren't you?"
You start to respond but I shake my head. I lean back on the counter and fold my arms decisively. This isn't a conversation. It's not a negotiation.
You tug your t-shirt upward, exposing your belly as your fingers finish unbuttoning your jeans. You wiggle your hips slightly to allow the jeans to fall open. Your thumb hooks the elastic band of your panties.
My hand falls to my crotch and you watch as I squeeze the growing bulge in jeans, dirty from the yard work. Your eyes rise to meet mine as your thumb slides down, stroking the soft wispy curls. The hair is still short from your last trim and you see my grip tighten as your thumb brushes past your clit, exposing your pussy.