“Here, put this on,” he said, with a grin. She did. Slipping the oversized t-shirt over her head, she smelled him, his scent, his essence, his sex. Her nipples reacted and her lungs filled. He ran his fingers along the front of the shirt, feeling where the comforting downslope of her breasts met the firm arch of her rib.
“Here,” he said. “Now, how do we mark it?” He searched around, keeping his fingers in place on her chest, looking for a marker or piece of tape or…sticky note! He ripped off a ubiquitous sticky note and spread it across the front of the shirt. This is where he would cut it. He reached for the scissors and held them in front of her. “Hold still, now,” he cautioned.
Using the sticky note as a guide, he plunged the point of the scissors through the thin fabric, careful not to injure the delicate skin of her chest. Then, he sliced along, just under her breasts. She could feel the blade gliding along her skin. She barely breathed. She crossed her legs, then opened them, the dampness beginning to build. He cut a straight…no, perfect…line under her breasts, then around the side. She stood straight and unmoving, as if she was tied to a tree, as the scissor blade ran along her back and around her side to meet the bottom swath of the t-shirt, where it dangled below one breast.
The tubular remains slid down to her waist and she was left with the shortened t-shirt, his old t-shirt, now hers. The air flowed in from the bottom and licked her nipples. When he finally set down the scissors and ran his hands up into the sweating valley between her breasts, she nearly fainted.