I climb onto the duvet.
His fingers find the first button of my blouse.
Snap.
The sound cracks through the silence like a gunshot.
“I dreamed about this.” His confession is rough sand against silk. “Peeling you open. Slowly.”
Pop.
Another button.
Cool air kisses my sternum.
His knuckle brushes the exposed swell of my breast above the bra.
A deliberate tease.
“Every night.” His lips follow where his hands bared me, searing a path along my collarbone. “Lying in this bed. I thought about you. Hard.Angry. Wanting.”
Riiiip.
The last button gives and the fabric sighs open.
He pushes the blouse off my shoulders, his palms skating down my arms.
I arch, seeking friction.
“Still.” His voice lashes like a whip.
I freeze.
He leaves my silk bra in place.
For now.
Only thehushof my skirt’s zipper fills the room. It glides down, inch by excruciating inch, his fingertips branding my hips through the thin slip beneath.
When the skirt pools at my knees, his thumbs hook into the lace waistband of my underwear, and I tremble.
“Lift,” he commands.
I raise my hips, still shaking.
He drags the scrap of lace down my thighs, over my knees, and past my ankles.
The cool air hits the bare skin of my soaking wet pussy.
His exhale trembles against my navel. “Fuck, Jess.”
He begins to worship me.
Not with his mouth. With hishands. His palms skate up my calves, his thumbs press into the hollows behind my knees. His fingers map the quivering tension in my inner thighs.
Each touch is reverent, possessive,hungry.
When his thumb brushes the soaked seam between my legs, I cry out, my hips jerking violently.
