The air in the room goes thick, like the moment before a storm, when she says it. Her breath is warm against your collarbone, the words slow and deliberate, each syllable a brush of lips that doesn’t soften the edge beneath them. She’s moving down, her palms sliding from your ribs to your hips, and there’s a stillness in her that wasn’t there a minute ago—no playful tilt of the head, no teasing smile. Just focus, sharp as a blade.
You’ve learned to read the difference between her “please stay” and her “don’t move.” The first is soft, laced with need; the second is a line in the sand. Once, you shifted without thinking, a small twitch of your leg, and she’d stopped entirely, lifting her head to meet your eyes. No anger, just a quiet intensity that said try that again. You hadn’t. This isn’t about control for control’s sake. It’s about trust—her trust that you’ll respect the space she’s carving out, and your understanding that crossing it would break something fragile.
Her hair falls forward, curtaining her face as she goes lower, and the warning hums in the silence between you. “Don’t move,” she repeats, and this time, you feel it in your bones—a reminder that some moments demand stillness, not eagerness. It’s not a threat. It’s a boundary, clear as glass, and you stay frozen, because you know better than to test it.