With deliberate calm, I reach for his shirt. Slide it off his shoulders. My hands move to his belt, the button, the zipper.
This man—sharp-suited, sharp-tongued, impossibly unattainable—is mine for one night..
And for one night, I’m letting go of every goody-two-shoes rule I’ve made.
He lets his black pants fall to the floor and stands before me in nothing but his underwear—silken, expensive, and almost indecently fitted.
His arousal strains against thefabric.
He breaks the kiss, eyes still closed, and tilts his head back like the anticipation is something sacred—something he needs to savor.
I don’t wait.
I slide my hand inside the waistband and wrap my fingers around him, firm, warm, and already pulsing in my grip. I stroke him slowly, deliberately, watching the muscles of his abdomen tighten as he lets out a deep, low moan.
And I don’t stop.
I guide him backward, inch by inch, never letting go—my rhythm unbroken, his breath ragged—until the backs of his knees meet the edge of the bed.
I place my hands at his waist, one on either side, and gently push him down.
He sits, eyes on me.
And for a breathless moment, I can’t move. Can’t think. I’m frozen in his gaze, suspended in the tension between reverence and desire.
Then I sink to my knees.
And take him in my mouth.
His hands go to my head, and he arches toward me, until I’m nearly swallowing him, as he lightens his touch, and lets his hands and his hips move with me. Until the moment he says, “Stop. It’s your turn.”
And suddenly, I’m on my back.
His mouth is on my breast—sucking, massaging, worshiping one and then the other—and I swear I’ve never felt a touch this skillful, this reverent. Like he’s savoring every inch of me.
He moves lower, trailing kisses down my stomach, and I gasp.
And then—his tongue. Oh God, his tongue. Flicking,circling, purposeful. He presses my folds back gently, exposing my clit, and lavishes it with steady, focused attention.
It’s too much. Too good.
I grip the sheets, hips already rising to meet him, desperate to hold off the release coiling deep inside me. But I’m so close. I can barely breathe.
I want him inside me.
Ineedhim inside me.
But I have rules.
I don’t beg. I don’t plead. I stay in control.
And yet… somehow he knows.
He can read the tension in my thighs, the restraint in my breath. Without a word, he rises over me, eyes locked on mine, and enters me slowly—deliberately—until I feel every inch of him, sliding deep inside.
My mouth opens, but still no words come.
Just sensation. Just this.
