He was tracing her spine, his fingers light and steady, expecting her to react. Arch. Moan. Pull him closer.
But when she stayed still, he took it as a sign to keep going.
Faster. Deeper. More.
Until she finally rolled away—not angry, not annoyed… just quiet.
“You don’t know how to pause,” she said.
He blinked. “Pause?”
She sat up, hair falling down her back like the curtain between two acts.
“Touch is easy,” she continued. “But stopping—midway, at the peak, right when you think you shouldn’t—that takes control. And awareness.”
Most men feared silence. Feared losing the moment. But what they didn’t know was—the pause is the moment.
Because when you stop, you create space. Space for breath. For build-up. For her.
He tried again. Slower this time. Tracing her ribcage, then pausing. Letting his hand rest. Feeling her heartbeat catch. Not because of pressure—but because of patience.
And when her eyes finally fluttered shut, it wasn’t the touch that undid her.
It was the stillness between touches.
Where anticipation swelled.
And where most men fail… because they’re too afraid to stop.