He’d been with younger women before—playful, eager, loud. But when she touched his shoulder and leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper, something about her made him stop breathing.
“Let me take care of it,” she said softly.
There was no performance. No drama. Just quiet confidence. She knelt with grace, unbuttoned him with care, and then—
Her tongue.
Not shy. Not slow. It moved with experience, precision, and wicked intent. She knew exactly how to make him melt. Every flick, every pause, every circle of warmth drove him further into the edge of madness.
And she didn’t stop to ask if it was too much.
Her soft murmurs—low hums from deep in her throat—made the contrast even sharper. She sounded sweet. But what she did with her mouth was anything but.
His hands gripped the edge of the table behind him. His legs shook. She didn’t say a word after that first whisper.
She just used her mouth like a woman who knew the truth:
Quiet women are often the most dangerous.