My own question. Dished back.
“Yes.” No hesitation. Not the pause she needed weeks ago when I asked her the same thing. Just the word.
“Close your eyes.”
I close them. The fabric settles. She ties it behind my head. Checking the tension the way I checked it on her.
“Too tight?”
“No.”
Everything goes dark. My teeth clench. My shoulders coil. Giving me the space to fight through what the dark does to a man who built his whole life around seeing the threat first.
She doesn’t touch me. She waits.
She’s in the room. The mattress shifting. Warmth close but not touching.
She takes my fist. Uncurls it. Lays my open hand against the warmth of her. Her heartbeat. Sure. The fixed point in a room I can’t see.
“I’m here.”
The fight drains out of my shoulders. Not all. Enough.
I hold onto the pulse under my palm. Her weight settles over my hips. Thighs on either side of me. She takes my cock, guides me into her, sinks down. Nothing between us.
“Fuck.” Wrenched out. Her pussy is tight and hot around me and I can’t see her face and every sensation runs at a voltage that should trip breakers.
“Patience.” She rolls her hips. Once. Twice. Sets a pace that’s hers. “You were in control every time.” Her voice above me. “Every night.”
“Whatever you want.”
She moves. Slow. Deep. I can feel everything and see nothing. Her warmth surrounding me. The shift of her weight when she leans forward. Her hair brushing my chest. Sandalwood from my sheets mixed with the scent of her skin. The grip of her when she clenches on the upstroke.
“Tell me what you feel.”
“You.” The only word. “Just you.”
She rides me with deliberation that borders on cruelty. Each roll dragging me closer. The pressure gathers at the base of my spine, the undertow pulling, and she senses it because she senses everything. She slows.
“I’m not done with you.” Her grip tightens on my wrist, pinning it to the mattress. “I’m not ready for you to be done.”
“Isabella.”
“Not yet.”
She brings me to the edge. Holds me there. I’m shaking with the effort of not letting go. Every reflex screaming to flip her, pin her, take control the way I’ve always taken it.
Pressure against my chest. Over my heart. Her anchor. Mine.
She moves again. Faster. She’s building too. The tension in her thighs. The hitch in her rhythm.
“Cazzo.“ Dragged out. My hips jerk. She stills.
“I said patience.”
“Please.” The word I’ve never said like this. Not in crisis. Not in prayer. Just need.
She stops. The room narrows to her heartbeat under my palm and mine under hers.
