The room is dark, only the faintest glow from the streetlight tracing the curve of her shoulder beneath the blanket. You’re half-asleep when it happens—her body shifting, the soft slide of skin against skin. Her bare leg drapes over yours, warm and heavy, fitting there as though it has always belonged.
The sensation is different from the cool glide of stockings—it’s alive. Her warmth seeps into you, the smoothness of her thigh pressing close, drawing you deeper into the stillness of the night. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move away; instead, she settles in closer, her toes brushing lightly against your ankle, sealing the contact like a quiet promise.
You lie there, wide awake now, acutely aware of every point where her body touches yours. In the hush of the room, it’s not just comfort—it’s possession, intimacy without a single word spoken. And as her breathing evens out, you find yourself hoping she never moves that leg again.