
Timing.
That’s what made the difference.
He didn’t press his luck the moment she sighed. He didn’t grab the curve of her thigh just because it was there. He waited—watched her, breathed with her. Let the moment ripen.
And when her body shifted—just subtly, a tilt of her pelvis, a soft inhale—he knew.
That was the cue.
He didn’t fumble. He didn’t ask. He just moved.
His fingers landed exactly where she’d been needing them—but not because he forced it. Because he read it.
And that was what undid her.
Not the pressure. Not the motion. But the timing.
She had been touched there before—too early, too eager, too rough. But this time? He waited until her body begged silently. Until her skin cried out without a word.
And when he finally dared—when he let himself go there—her hands gripped the sheets, and she thanked him without speaking.
It wasn’t about technique. It was about tuning in.
Touching her where she needed—when she needed.
Because a man who understands timing?
He doesn’t just satisfy her.
He awakens her.