He’s already halfway in the bed, boots gone, shirt gone, pants gone, down to boxers with movements economical, controlled. He freezes the second I say his name, muscles going still like he’s been caught doing something he hadn’t decided he’d own yet.
“You awake,” he says softly.
“I don’t know.” If I’m asleep and this is a dream, I don’t want to be awake. And if I’m awake and he’s going to leave then I want to be asleep.
A beat passes. Another. “If you want me gone—” he starts.
I reach for him. It’s instinct. Not thought. My hand closes around his wrist, skin warm under my fingers, pulse steady and real.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
The tension in him snaps, not violently, but decisively. Like a line pulled too tight finally giving way.
He exhales and shifts closer, careful even now, like he’s afraid of breaking something. Or being broken himself. The bed dips under his weight and suddenly the space feels smaller, warmer, charged in a way that makes my breath hitch.
“You okay?” he asks, low and intent.
I nod, then realize he’s watching my face too closely to miss uncertainty. “Yes,” I say again. “I want you here.”
That’s all it takes. He cups my face with one hand, rough palm warm against my cheek, thumb brushing just under my eye like he’s checking that I’m real. When he kisses me, it’s slow. Like he’s testing, and cherishing, nothing like the urgency I expect from a man who lives on roads and impulse.
I melt into it anyway. The kiss deepens, his mouth warm and sure, like he’s memorizing me by feel. I slide closer, fitting against him without thinking, my leg hooking over his thigh. He groans softly at that—barely a sound, but it goes straight through me.
“You’re tired,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
“I’m not tired anymore,” I whisper back.
He smiles then, just a little. Not cocky. Not sharp. Something softer that makes my chest ache.
We move together without hurry, without words, the night folding around us like it’s keeping secrets. His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once—steady, confident, and still soft. He kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep contact.
It’s not frantic. It’s inevitable.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the sound of my name in his mouth. To the way he holds me like I matter, not as a conquest or a distraction, but as something chosen.
What starts with a kiss grows. His hands roam my sides, my body arches, I’m aching for more contact. In the dark of my room the colors of ink on his tattoos seem to dance as he shifts over me, I’m in an oversized t-shirt and panties as I feel the length of his erection settle between my legs. Instinctively I rock against him. My moans are drowning in each kiss when he finally breaks away moving to trace his tongue along my neck. His hands slide up my shirt lifting it up over the swells of my breasts. I arch my nipples raking against his tattoo covered chest as I feel his fingers slide into my panties and against my heat.
Rocking, I seek more friction, more attention to my core. Reading me, he gives as his thumb presses gently on my clit and his finger enters me. Lost in sensation I have no insecurities as I shamelessly move against his hand.
Grinding.
Needing.
Wanting.
Passion consumes me as he lets out a low growl before his hand moves and I feel the fabric of my panties tear from my flesh. Reaching out, I slide his boxers over the swell of his ass and down allowing myself to feel the soft flesh of his dick against my sensitive pussy lips.
His lips land just behind my ear as he lines up and begins to slowly, delicately enter me. My body stretches and I find myself pulling him against me tightly. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex or even given into self-care attention. Between work and my grandfather, my needs have taken a backseat to life. The sensations of his weight over me, but controlled in only a way he does only turns me on more.
He is in a plank/push-up like position over me. His right hand comes up to my thigh guiding my leg around his where I settle with him deep inside me. As he lifts up, my hips rock giving friction against my core. The sensations overwhelm me as chills run through my body. My insides clinch around him as he begins to move. The pace is slow, deliberate.
Delicate.
He rocks in and out never taking his eyes from mine. The intensity in his gaze leaves nothing unexposed.
This man is turned on by me. My body rocks in rhythm with his. The orgasm is building, I’m at the very edge. His stare leaves me feeling vulnerable, I turn my head.
He stills.
