I don't move.
Neither does she.
Slowly, she lifts a corner of the sheet.
Inviting.
My hand slides higher, under the covers and between her legs.
Her body is warm. The silk is cool and slick.
I watch her face as my fingers brush over the fabric, tracing a line between her legs.
A little shiver rolls through her, a tiny tremor that makes me hold still.
She doesn’t push me away, doesn't move, doesn’t speak. She watches.
I trace her seam.
She chokes out a breathy moan.
I cup her.
She breathes in, a soft, stuttered breath.
I rub gently, and she arches, just a little, a small shift of her hips.
Her hands are curled against her chest, clutching the sheet. Her knuckles are white.
She is everything.
I glide my hand across her silky skin, over her hips, playing my fingers over her belly. She shivers, and goosebumps bloom over her skin. I slide the silk up, over her stomach, and higher, until it bunches beneath her arms.
The room is still.
The only sound is her breath.
She's bare beneath the silk. Her breasts rise and fall with every quick breath. Her nipples are hard.
My mouth waters.
I want to taste her.
But not yet.
Not now.
My fingers trace the delicate skin of her breasts, and her breath catches.
I pause.
Her eyes are fixed on me.
I cup her.
She bites her lip.
I roll her nipple, gently.
