His hands were confident—but not cocky.
He traced her waist with reverence, like he was sculpting her from warmth and breath. He kissed down her belly, stopping at the crest of her hips, breathing against her skin like he was waiting for permission.
But she didn’t need hesitation. She needed courage.
And when he stalled, fingers resting just at the edge, she gave him a look—half hunger, half dare.
“One inch,” she whispered.
He swallowed. Not because he was afraid, but because he realized: he’d played safe. Polite. Predictable. And she wasn’t here for that.
So he moved—not with urgency, but with focus. He slid down, one inch. Just one.
But that inch held everything.
It was where she kept her unspoken needs. Where others had skimmed over, too eager or too unsure. Where no one had taken the time to stay.
And when he did—when he kissed that exact place—her hand shot to his hair, not pulling him in, but anchoring herself. As if to say: Now you’re getting it.
That inch wasn’t about sex. It was about sensitivity. Precision. Presence.
And as his lips stayed there, moving just slightly—listening to her breath, adjusting to her twitch—he felt her open. Not her legs—her walls.
That one inch? It wasn’t just a distance.
It was a threshold.
And now he was inside.