Not Finished Yet
I’m already warm with anticipation before you even touch me—like my body figured out what’s coming and decided to meet you there first.
When you move behind me, the air changes. I feel it in the way my skin tightens, in the way my breath turns shallow and slow. I glance over my shoulder and catch your eyes, and something in your expression makes my stomach flip—steady, hungry, but patient. Like you’re not here to rush me. Like you’re here to take your time.
Your hands settle on my hips and it’s grounding, almost tender, the kind of touch that says, I’ve got you. I let my shoulders drop. I let myself soften into the moment.
The first brush of you close to me makes my whole body react—an involuntary inhale, a small sound I don’t even try to hide. I can feel you hovering at the edge of what I want, teasing me with that pause that drives me wild. You’re close enough that I can feel your heat, but you hold back just long enough to make me crave it.
I shift, slowly, inviting you in with a small movement that’s half confidence, half plea. And when you answer, when you finally close that distance, it’s not sudden—it’s measured, deliberate, like you’re listening to my body and letting it lead.
It feels overwhelming in the best way. I breathe through it, letting the sensation bloom instead of fighting it, letting it spread until it turns my thoughts into something soft and hazy. I rock back a little, testing, learning the rhythm, and when you respond—steady, certain—I feel that rush of control and surrender at the same time.
My hands press into the bed, but it’s not because I’m bracing. It’s because I need somewhere to put all that energy building in me. I lift my hips again, a wordless more, and you answer with a quiet sound that makes my pulse jump. I can feel the way you’re holding yourself back just enough to keep me right on the edge—right where everything feels sharper.
The pace grows, but it still feels intentional. Your grip tightens at my waist—not rough, just possessive—and it makes me melt. I push back with purpose now, matching you, meeting you, taking what I want without apology. Every time I move, it’s like I’m claiming the moment for myself.
And then it happens: the shift. The point where I stop thinking and start feeling—where pleasure turns heavy and insistent, rolling through me in waves that steal the words right out of my mouth. I can’t help the sounds I make. I don’t want to.
I turn my head, searching for you, needing to know you’re right there with me. When I catch your eyes again, something in me sparks—bold and shameless. I hold your gaze like a dare.
And when you lean in, mouth close to my ear, and whisper that you’re going to make it last…
I believe you.
Because I’m already trembling, already undone, and I know we’re nowhere near finished.
When you move behind me, the air changes. I feel it in the way my skin tightens, in the way my breath turns shallow and slow. I glance over my shoulder and catch your eyes, and something in your expression makes my stomach flip—steady, hungry, but patient. Like you’re not here to rush me. Like you’re here to take your time.
Your hands settle on my hips and it’s grounding, almost tender, the kind of touch that says, I’ve got you. I let my shoulders drop. I let myself soften into the moment.
The first brush of you close to me makes my whole body react—an involuntary inhale, a small sound I don’t even try to hide. I can feel you hovering at the edge of what I want, teasing me with that pause that drives me wild. You’re close enough that I can feel your heat, but you hold back just long enough to make me crave it.
I shift, slowly, inviting you in with a small movement that’s half confidence, half plea. And when you answer, when you finally close that distance, it’s not sudden—it’s measured, deliberate, like you’re listening to my body and letting it lead.
It feels overwhelming in the best way. I breathe through it, letting the sensation bloom instead of fighting it, letting it spread until it turns my thoughts into something soft and hazy. I rock back a little, testing, learning the rhythm, and when you respond—steady, certain—I feel that rush of control and surrender at the same time.
My hands press into the bed, but it’s not because I’m bracing. It’s because I need somewhere to put all that energy building in me. I lift my hips again, a wordless more, and you answer with a quiet sound that makes my pulse jump. I can feel the way you’re holding yourself back just enough to keep me right on the edge—right where everything feels sharper.
The pace grows, but it still feels intentional. Your grip tightens at my waist—not rough, just possessive—and it makes me melt. I push back with purpose now, matching you, meeting you, taking what I want without apology. Every time I move, it’s like I’m claiming the moment for myself.
And then it happens: the shift. The point where I stop thinking and start feeling—where pleasure turns heavy and insistent, rolling through me in waves that steal the words right out of my mouth. I can’t help the sounds I make. I don’t want to.
I turn my head, searching for you, needing to know you’re right there with me. When I catch your eyes again, something in me sparks—bold and shameless. I hold your gaze like a dare.
And when you lean in, mouth close to my ear, and whisper that you’re going to make it last…
I believe you.
Because I’m already trembling, already undone, and I know we’re nowhere near finished.
1ヶ月前
