I let her set the pace, let her explore my mouth with hers, a slow, deliberate dance of discovery.
I keep my hands to myself, my fists clenched at my sides, because I know the second I touch her, I won't be able to stop.
I’ll take.
And I won't be gentle.
But this isn't about me.
This is about her.
She deepens the kiss, a soft sigh escaping her lips as her tongue touches mine, a hesitant exploration that quickly turns into something more.
I have to fight the urge to take control.
I have to fight the urge to roll her over, pin her beneath me, and remind her who's in charge.
I wait.
Her free hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair.
She pulls me closer, her body pressing against mine, the duvet the only thing separating us.
The heat of her is intoxicating.
I can feel the peaks of her breasts through the fabric, and I want to rip it away.
I want to feel her skin against mine.
I want to taste every inch of her.
But I don't.
I let her lead.
She’s the one who breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at me, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed.
Her eyes, dark and dazed with desire, are fixed on mine.
She licks her lips, a slow, deliberate movement that sends a jolt of lust straight through me.
The urge to flip her to her stomach and yank her hips up until she's on her knees before me is so strong I taste copper.
I want to see her face in the mirror across the room when I drive into her from behind. I want to watch her expression change from fear to pleasure to submission as I take her.
I want to hear her beg.
But I stay perfectly still.
Letting her do this.
Letting her make the choice.
She’s looking at me like she’s never seen me before.
And in a way, maybe she hasn’t.
