I could smell you on them, that is, until the smell of blood took over and eventually the smell of rotting flesh completely erased any trace of you on them
The accidental friction of our denim jeans brushing at the knees at the start of the night. Becoming acquainted, both silently aware, but neither moving. By the end, our crotches hurriedly grinding together while our moans spill into open mouthed, wet kisses.