It starts with a look.
That low, loaded glance across the room — your mouth curling just slightly, eyes dark with something that says you know exactly what you’re doing to me.
And I already feel it. That tension between us, coiled and waiting. I can’t help the way my thighs press together when you pass behind me, fingers ghosting along my lower back like you’re planting a fuse.
You don’t touch me properly. Not yet.
You make me wait.
When you finally come close, your mouth grazes my neck without kissing it. I tilt my head instinctively, offering you more, but you just laugh softly against my skin and walk away.
It’s maddening.
By the time we reach the bedroom, I’m already aching. My clothes feel too tight, my skin too sensitive, like every inch of me is tuned to your frequency. You press me against the door, our bodies flush — hard and hot and needy — but your hands don’t wander where I want them to. Not properly.
We kiss, but it’s slow. Excruciatingly slow.
Your tongue flicks against mine, just enough to stir, to tease, and then you pull back, watching me with a smug kind of hunger. I try to chase your mouth, but you grip my jaw and whisper, “No rushing.”
You peel my clothes off piece by piece, trailing your fingertips over bare skin, always around the places I want you most.
Your lips brush over my chest, between my thighs, the dip of my hip — everything but where I need you.
I’m wet. Desperate. Practically trembling with it.
And you?
You’re rock hard against me, leaking and straining, and I can tell it’s killing you too.
You kiss down my stomach, breath hot, and finally — finally — your fingers brush between my legs. Just a tease. Just enough to make my body jolt and my breath catch.
Then nothing.
“Fuck,” I gasp. “Please.”
“You want to come?”
I nod frantically.
You slip two fingers inside me and stroke — slow, perfect, filthy — and just as I feel that blinding wave begin to crash… you pull away.
I cry out, clenching around nothing, my body shaking. You crawl up over me and kiss me with smug satisfaction, your cock grinding between my thighs, but you don’t push inside. Not yet.
And then it’s your turn.
I flip you beneath me, straddle you, and grind down against you — skin to skin, slick and pulsing. You groan, grip my hips, try to thrust — but I rise just enough to stop you.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “If I’m not allowed… neither are you.”
I drag my wet heat along the length of your cock, not taking you in, just sliding, slick and slow, letting you feel how close we are. You curse, throw your head back, and buck up wildly, but I hold firm.
You’re panting now. Eyes wild.
“Fuck, I need to—”
I lean down, teeth at your throat. “Not yet.”
We do this for hours.
Edging each other over and over.
Mouths and hands and tongues — fingers plunging and curling, lips sucking and licking, thighs shaking and breath catching — and every single time one of us gets too close, the other stops.
We deny ourselves, together.
Because the ache makes it sweeter. Because the need becomes unbearable. Because every brush of skin, every gasp, every whispered please makes the release more dangerous.
By the time you finally pin me down, I’m soaked, spent, feral.
And when you finally slide inside me, slow and deep and perfect, my whole body jolts. We both gasp. You’re so hard, so sensitive, I can feel every twitch, every tremble — and I match it, slick and pulsing and about to come undone.
We fuck like we’ve been starving for each other. Like we won’t survive it.
The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave — violent and sharp and endless — and I feel you follow, losing yourself completely, shouting my name like it’s the only thing you remember.
We collapse, ruined and shaking, bodies tangled, sweat cooling between us.
No words.
Just breath. Just touch. Just this wreckage we made together. |
