Her lips brushed the side of his face, trembling with words that carried more heat than warning. “Someone might hear,” she whispered, the syllables breaking on her breath, but her body contradicted her tone. Her hand clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. Her caution sounded rehearsed, like something she thought she ought to say, yet the way her thighs pressed to his told a different truth—that the possibility of being heard only made her heart race faster.
He paused, waiting for the command to end this, but it never came. Instead, her whisper faded into a low hum, the kind of sound that fills silence when restraint begins to slip. She tilted her head back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat, her chest rising unevenly against him. She spoke of risk, of being overheard, but each time his touch lingered, she leaned in further, betraying herself. The warning was not a barrier; it was a dare, a trembling acknowledgment that secrecy only heightened the ache between them.
When his hand slid lower, she let out another breathless plea, but it wasn’t a refusal—it was a surrender wrapped in the pretense of resistance. “Don’t… someone will know.” Yet her nails dug into him, her hips shifted, and the shiver that ran through her body revealed what she truly meant. She had given him the chance to stop; instead, she let silence swallow her words, her body making the decision she couldn’t voice. The whisper became irrelevant—the only thing left was the undeniable pulse of wanting.