Fuck. His big honey ham frying pan hands, on the very chaste small of her back, has her immediately daydreaming about huge catcher mitt hands on the rest of her. Palming her tits, sliding across her waist, gripping her thighs. She puffs a soft little sigh into his mouth, a mournful little noise as her imagination runs away from her.

Who needs foreplay, Grace can just think herself into the mood!

Her poor, fucked up hand spasms, tightening against his hair maybe to tight and she bleats an apologetic "sorry" between kisses.