Winter nights

Nothing beats the comfort of a soft pullover against bare skin on a winter night. The wool brushes my nipples, sending little sparks down my body. I lean back on the bed and slide my hand between my thighs, pressing my fingers to my own heat. My legs part wider, and my breath catches as I circle the sensitive flesh. The fabric slips off one shoulder, exposing my breast to the cold air, and the contrast makes my nipples tighten harder. I keep rubbing, moving slower, letting each stroke build. My hips lift off the mattress in short, urgent rolls. I hold the hem of the pullover up with one hand, watching my own fingers work, wet and shiny. The room stays silent except for the wet sounds and my quiet gasps, until my muscles lock and the pleasure crashes through me in tight waves.