Her touch started soft, featherlight, tracing the edge of his collarbone before sliding down, slow, over the hair on his chest. He let out a breath, his eyes closing, as she mapped the curve of his ribs, the dip of his stomach, her fingers pausing to brush the waistband of his jeans. “Ticklish,” he murmured, half-joking, and she laughed, the sound warm against his skin.
Then she kept going.
Past the waistband, her fingers slipping beneath the fabric, her touch firmer now, deliberate, as she traced a line lower, lower, until he sucked in a breath, his eyes flying open. This wasn’t aimless wandering. This was intent, every movement calculated to make his pulse race, to turn that soft, lazy touch into something that burned.
He reached for her, his hands tangling in her hair, but she pulled back slightly, a half-smile on her face, as if to say let me. So he did, letting himself fall into the rhythm of her touch—the slow slide, the sudden pressure, the way she seemed to know exactly where to linger. This was her language, spoken with her fingers, and he was finally learning to understand it.
Her hand stilled, just for a second, as she met his gaze, her eyes dark, and then she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “Like that?” she asked, and he nodded, unable to form words, as she moved again, slower this time, drawing it out, making him beg without saying a word. Some journeys are worth taking slowly—and this one? It was just getting started.