They were lying close, skin against skin, the room still echoing with their laughter. He had touched her before—lightly, respectfully—but this was different. This time, she wanted more.
Her hand reached for his, gently curling her fingers around his wrist. She was shaking, just slightly—not from fear, but from what she was about to let him feel.
She guided his hand lower, then lower still. Past the familiar curves, into warmer, softer territory. When his fingers reached the edge of her heat, she pressed them inward with trembling intent.
She exhaled, slow and broken. He could feel the tension in her thighs, the way her hips tilted to meet his touch, the way she didn’t speak but kept guiding him, deeper, deeper.
Her fingers never left his. It was as if she needed to feel in control—even in her surrender.
And he didn’t resist. He followed her pace, her pressure, her silence. The deeper he went, the more she let go—breath by breath, inch by inch.
In that quiet, trembling moment, nothing else mattered but the connection between his touch and her need.