They are soft and warm, just like in the bed this morning, with hard buttons in the center of each. And knowing that buttons are meant to be pressed, ...he man does so, his thumbs finding them and rotating them even as he presses.The girl gives a squeak of outrage, faux outrage at that. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands. “You can’t do that.”“Really?” Steven asks. “I thought I just did.” His hands leave her chest, sliding down and around and under. They slip under, beneath her shirt to. We had to stop often to refer back to her yearbook because I couldn't remember over half of the names of folks that she had talked to or seen. Mostly all leading normal conventional lives, happy or pretending to be so with husbands and wives close at hand and fat wallets full of pictures of their children, and even a few over achievers that had grandchildren already. Of all of the names she recounted I knew virtually none of them and had never had any sort of special relationship with any of. More

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