This time, it’s less subtle.
She arches her back slightly, a silent plea for more contact.
My cock jumps at the gesture.
I’m so hard it’s painful.
I want to roll over and press it against the soft curve of her ass.
I want to feel her move against me, to hear her moan and call me "Sir."
Instead, I let my fingers curl, just slightly, against the duvet.
And I wait.
Finally, after a few moments that feel like an eternity, I feel the bed shift as she rolls over.
She’s on her other side now, facing me.
Her eyes are wide, and she looks terrified.
The duvet is still clutched in her hands, pulled up to her chin, but I can see more of her face now, the way her blonde hair fans out over the pillow, the delicate line of her jaw.
Her gaze drops to my lips.
I want to kiss her.
I want to taste her.
But I don't.
I just watch her.
She watches me, too.
Her eyes, so deep and dark in this light, are full of a conflict I understand all too well.
Fear and desire.
Shame and need.
She’s fighting a war with herself, and what I have to offer is both prize and enemy.
I want to tell her it’s okay.
That she doesn’t have to be afraid.
That she can have this and still live the life she always dreamed of having.
But I can’t.
She has to figure that out for herself.
I have to let her.
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words, with the memory of everything that’s happened between us.
I can feel the heat of her breath on my face, and it takes everything in me not to close the small distance between us and take her mouth with mine.
