“Right. Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”
“I never said that.” He shifts closer, his lips brushing the back of my shoulder in the smallest kiss. “I don’t want you quiet.” His hand lingers on my arm. “Shall I show you one of the things I pictured?”
I manage a tiny nod as a thrill zaps through me.
His fingertips begin tracing slow lines along my arm, down to my elbow, then back up, unhurried. My breathing goes shallow. He explores the shape of me beneath the sheets, then beneath it, fingertips rustling satin as he brushes my waist, my ribs, the path up my side and back down to my hip.
Every touch feels like an intake of breath, gentle strokes that shiver my skin and cause heat to bloom.
He lingers near my hip, then slides across to my belly. Then lower.
My breath trembles as his hand settles near the lace of my panties. I draw a shaky breath, willing him to keep going.
His thumb traces slow circles against my skin, patient in a way that feels cruel.
“Tell me if—”
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, the plea slipping free.
Deft fingers slip beneath fabric, his fingers finding me in the dark, stroking—finding me wet, aching, and swollen with need. I struggle not to moan as he strokes me with his fingers, his palm, in languid motions that has me rocking my hips, craving more. His touch shifts, fingers pressing deeper, and I break around the quiet intrusion.
“Oh,” I whisper, my breath stuttering as his long fingers slide deep. Full.
He groans—a stifled sound of awe he doesn’t quite manage to hold back.
He strokes, advancing slowly, reverently, as though he’s intentionally drawing out my response.
We breathe together, harsh and uneven, his jaw resting heavy on my shoulder, the faint scratch of stubble arousing me, his heat and tender touches anchoring me as I begin to float.
Every second is bliss, each sweep of pleasure unravelling me, the weight of his focus leaving me dizzy.
He delves deeper, harder, his exhales as harsh as mine as he holds me, moving with devastating control.
I arch into his palm, a quiet whimper escaping as he touches me exactly where I need him to, the steady pressure building beneath his attention.
The pleasure builds gradually, slow wave after slow wave, until I’m clinging to him, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it—not just physical but something more profound.
He sets a steady pace, teasing me lazily, drawing it out until I’m melting in his arms.
“I’ve thought about touching you like this,” he murmurs, kissing my neck, nibbling the sensitive skin gently until I’m writhing in his arms. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”
“Me too,” I gasp, and I hear him curse low, holding me tighter, movements intensifying.
My breathing grows ragged, my whimpers almost sobs as he works me harder, coaxing me towards pleasure as he groans against my neck. His firm length presses into me, rubbing against my ass, and I wonder…
“Are you…close?”
“Yes,” he rasps, even though his hands are occupied with me, one hand working me faster, the other now combing through my hair, fingers tightening just enough to make my scalp sting and make me gasp in surprise. “Very.”
His breath breaks against my shoulder, a raw, helpless sound that tells me I’m not alone in this—whateverthisis that’s overtaken us both.
Pleasure washes through us in slow, echoing waves. We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together, hearts racing, the world narrowed to our heavy breathing. It takes a long while for my lungs to remember their rhythm, for the tremor in my limbs to fade, for the intensity to fadeinto something gentler—a closeness that lingers long after the urgency has passed.
My head rests on his chest, rising and falling with his steady breaths, his arms wrapped around me.
“Did you…?” I trail off.
“Yes.” His voice is raw, unguarded. “I did. I’ve wanted you badly for so long.”
