I’m kneeling on her bed, looming over her, and she’s running her hands up my bare torso like she wants to map every contour by touch. Her gaze is hungry and scientific all at once—a study, not a worship.
“Get down here with me.” She catches my wrist and pulls me down, so I’m beside her, not above. We’re face to face on the faded pink sheets, and I realize I’m still half-laughing, a little incredulous this is actually happening. She’s so beautiful this close-up—freckles, mouth, the scar on her chin from a childhood fall. So present I almost can’t look at her.
But I do.
“Audrey,” I whisper, awe in my voice. She smiles at me, then kisses me again, softer now, sliding her hand down my side to the waistband of my jeans. There’s nothing subtle in the way her fingers move, their heat, their intent. It ghosts along my skin with a precision my own hands wouldn’t dare. The zipper goes, then the button, and her palm drags across my hip as she eases the denim down just far enough. I can’t stop shivering.
“This OK?” she asks, her voice drowsy with want and concern braided together.
“Yes,” I say, and the word comes out almost a plea. “God, yes.”
She grins and shifts, straddling me, hips pinning mine to the mattress. She’s so confident like this, so deliberate, like she engineered this exact scenario down to the last variable. Maybe she did. She leans forward, her palms on either side of my head, and kisses me slow and filthy. Then she sits up again, scanning my face for any hint of doubt. There isn’t any.
I don’t know how long we kiss. Time dissolves. There is no clock, no sense of urgency. Only Audrey straddling me, her hands and mouth making bold, calculated advances. I want her so much it hurts—all the hunger and fascination and reverenceI’ve starved myself of for years now rising up and threatening to undo me.
She’s in her bra and jeans, our torsos pressed so close that the roughness of the fabric bites into my bare skin. I push her hair from her eyes, and the movement’s so gentle I barely recognize my own hands. She looks down at me, daring, and slides both palms up my chest before tracing them to her own waist. She arches above me, steady and slow, never looking away as she brings my hands to cover her breasts.
She’s warm and solid beneath my hands, the shape of her breasts a perfect fit even through the smooth stretch of pale pink, and for a moment I can’t move, can’t even breathe—I’m too conscious of all the places we’re touching. Then I remember what happens next in these situations—in theory, in observed practice. I’ve watched the instructional videos. I skim my thumbs upward, reverent. She’s so soft. The fabric is smooth, but the heat underneath is electric, almost uncontainable. When I start to fumble for the clasp, she laughs—a wild, delighted sound—and reaches behind herself, flicking it open with the kind of practiced ease I could never match.
She shrugs it off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, not breaking eye contact. Her nipples are flush pink, peaked and tight. I think I stop breathing for a full ten seconds.
“You’re allowed to touch,” she teases, and her hands cup mine, bringing them up again.
She places my palms around her bare breasts, and I almost combust right there. Her skin is so warm and soft, the contrast between us so intense I need a second to calibrate. The tip of one nipple brushes my thumb as she shifts, and the jolt it gives her is immediate and visible. She bites her lip, but doesn’t look away, eyes locked on mine. I can read all of her, every tiny response, and it’s the greatest privilege of my life.
I lean up and—gently, maybe clumsily—bring my mouth to her. For a heartbeat she just breathes, watching me, and then her whole body shudders as I take her nipple between my lips. The taste of her floods into my mouth: salt and skin, and the trace of something floral from her lotion. I suck softly, a trial, and she gasps like I’ve just proven a difficult theorem and I want to see what every other experiment will yield.
I explore her, careful at first—she’s too important, too real, to be careless with—but when I sweep my tongue across the tight circle of her nipple, she gasps and sways into me.
The sound catches me off guard. I did that. I made her feel that.
It feels like a reward, so I do it again, a little bolder, and she lets her head tip back, her hair falling down her spine and her breath trembling in open, wordless approval. Every response is a revelation—proof that maybe, against all odds, I’m not as broken as I thought.
It’s not a sound I’ve ever wrung from another person, and it makes me ache to be the man who can.
She pushes against me, her hands in my hair and her chest pressed so close there’s nowhere to hide from the heat pumping between us. I taste her, suck gently, then harder. She makes these tiny, helpless noises, and it becomes obvious why people get addicted to sex. For a second, you are the entire universe to someone else. Right now, I am the laws of physics and the relentless tide, and Audrey is the galaxy drifting closer to fall into my gravity well.
We grind against each other, slow at first, her hips rolling in long, languorous waves that leave me dizzy. Her jeans are still on, but the friction is so immediate I can’t help the way my hips snap up, chasing the heat of her through the layers. I dig my fingers into her waist, grounding myself, but it’s not enough—she kisses me so hard I taste blood, a tang of iron threaded into the wild sweetness of her mouth.
My cock aches and she must feel it because she pauses, gazing down at me with that dangerous, analytical affection. “You still doing OK?” she murmurs, rock steady.
“Yeah,” I manage, not trusting myself to say more.
“Can I take your jeans off now?”
“Yeah.”
She grins, then sits back on her knees and starts pulling my jeans down with both hands, wrestling them off my legs, and for a moment the sight is almost too much—a brilliant, beautiful woman, half-naked and fiercely focused on undressing me like she’s unwrapping a long-awaited gift. She’s laughing when my socks catch on my ankle, her face open and unguarded, and it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. She frees my feet with a flourish and tosses my jeans aside, leaving me in nothing but black boxer briefs and uncontainable hunger.
She pauses then, perched above me, palms braced at my hips. Her gaze flicks up and down my body—curious, hungry, a touch reverent. Then she runs her fingertips along the waistband, slow and experimental, and the pressure threatens to detonate me. I can’t look away, can’t even think about looking away.
Her hands splay against my ribs and she leans forward, hair falling to curtain her face above my stomach. She slides her palms up, getting reacquainted with every inch. I squirm a little, and she smiles—hungry, delighted. But when she hooks her fingers into the waistband and starts to work them down, I catch her wrists.
I don’t know why. Reflex, maybe. Or the sudden, sharp fear that once she sees all of me—once there’s nothing left to hide behind—she’ll realize the truth. That I’m not just inexperienced.That I’m fundamentally, irreparably bad at this. At being human. At being someone who deserves to be touched like this.
The fear is irrational. I know it’s irrational. But knowing doesn’t make it stop.
“You need me to stop?”
